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THE  DOCTOnS  DILEMMA, 
(iETTIXC;  MAHUIKI).  AND 
THE  SIIEWIXG  I  r  OF 
BLANCO    POSNET 


BERNARD    SHAWS    HOOKS 


DEAMATIC  OPINIONS  AND  ESSAYS.  Willi 
Introduction  by  James  Hunekeb.    2  vols. 

Set,  fe.50 

PLAYS    PLEASANT    AND    UNPLEASANT. 

2  vols. yet,    2.50 

JOHN  BULL'S  OTHER  ISLAND  AND  MA- 
JOR  BARBARA.     12mo Xet.     1.50 

MAN   AND  SUPERMAN.     12mo      -    -    -   Net,     1.25 

THREE  PLAYS  FOB  PURITANS.    12«io.    Net,     1.25 

THE    ADMIRABLE    BASHVILLE.     A  Play. 

Net,       .50 

THE  DOCTOR'S  DILEMMA.  GETTING  MAR- 
RIED. AND  THE  SUEWING-UP  OF 
BLANCO  POSNET Net.     \.50 

THE  QUINTESSENCE  OF  IBSENISM      -    -  1.00 

THE  PERFECT  WAGNERITE l.'2.5 

CASHEL  BYRON'S  PROFESSION     -    -    -    -  1.25 

AN  UNSOCIAL  SOCIALIST 1.25 

THE  IRRATIONAL  KNOT 1.50 

LOVE  AMONG  THE  ARTISTS     -    .     -    -    -  1.50 

THE    AUTHOR'S    APOLOGY    FROM    MRS. 

WARREN'S  PROFESSION    -    -    -    -   Net,      .60 


BREXTAXCrS,  Fifth  Ave.,  Xav   Y'ork 


THE    DOCTOR'S    DILExMMA, 
GETTING   MARRIED,    AND 
THE    S  II  E  W  I  N  G  -  U  P    OF 
BLANCO   POSNET  •  BY   BER 
NARD   SHAW 


BRENTANOS 
M  C  xM  X  I 


NEW   YORK 


Copyrujht,  1009,  hy  Breulano's 
Covj/ripht,  1911,  hi/  G.  Bernard  Shaw 

Published  February,  1911 
Reprinted  March,  I'Jll 
Reprinted  June.  1911 


THK  TROW  PRESS  •  NEW  YORK 


CONTENTS 


The  Doctor's  Dileiiiiiia:  a  Tragedy 

Preface   on    Doctors         .... 

Doubtfid     C'liarnctcr    iKirno    hv    the 
Medical   Profession 

Doctors'   Consciences 

The  Peculiar  Peojile   . 

Recoil  of  the  Dogma  of  Medical  In 
falliliility  on  tlie  Doctor   . 

Wliy   Doctors  do  not  Differ 

The    Craze    for    Operations 

Credulity   .and   Chloroform 

Medical    Poverty  ... 

The  Successful   Doctor 

The    Psychology   of   Self-Respcct   In 
Surgeons    ..... 

Are  Doctors  Men  of  Science?    . 

Bacteriology  as  a  Superstition  . 

Economic    Difficulties   of    Immuniza 
tion    ...... 

The  Perils  of   Inoculation. 

Trade  Unionism  and  Science 

Doctors  and  Vivisection 

The  Primitive  Savage  Motive   . 

The   Higher   Motive.      The   Tree  of 
Knowledge        .... 

The  Flaw  in  the  Argument 

Limitations   of   the   Right   to    Know- 
ledge          


VI 

viii 
ix 

xi 
xiv 

XV 

xvii 
xviii 

XX 

xxii 
xxiv 
xxvi 

xxix 

xxxi 

xxxiv 

xxxvi 

xxxvii 

xxxix 

xl 


xli 


Contents 


A  False  Alternative   . 
Cruelty  for  its  own  Sake  . 
Our  Own  Cruelties 
The      Scientific      Investigation 

Cruelty 

Suggested  Laboratory  Tests  of  the 

Vivisector's  Emotions     . 
Routine         ..... 
The    Old    Line    between    Man    and 

Beast 

Vivisecting  the  Human  Subject 
"  The  Lie  is  a  European  Power  " 
An  Argument  which  would  Defend 

any  Crime        .         .         .         . 
Thou  Art  the  Man     . 
What   the    Public   Wants    and    Will 

Not  Get  .... 

The  Vaccination  Craze 
Statistical  Illusions     . 
The     Surprises     of    Attention     t 

Neglect 

Stealing  Credit  from  Civilization 
Biometrika  .... 

Patient-made  Therapeutics 
The    Reforms    also    come    from    the 

Laity        ..... 
Fashions  and  Epidemics    . 
The  Doctor's  Virtues 
The  Doctor's  Hardships    . 
The  Public  Doctor     . 
Medical  Organization 
The  Social  Solution  of  the  Medical 

Problem  .... 

The  Future  of  Private  Practice 
The  Technical  Problem     . 
The  Latest  Theories 


xlii 

xliv 

xlv 

xlvii 

xlviii 
xlix 

Uii 

liv 

Iv 

Ivii 
Ix 

Ixi 
Ixi 
Ixii 

Ixv 

Ixvii 

Ixix 

Ixx 

Ixxi 
Ixxii 
Ixxii 
Ixxiii 
Ixxvi 
lxx\'ii 

Ixxix 

Ixxx 

Ixxxii 

Ixxxvi 


Contents 


Getting  ]Married:  a  Comedy     . 

Preface — The  Revolt  against  Marriage 
Marriage   Neverthcli'ss   Inevitable 
What  does  the  Wort!  Marriage  Mean 
Survivals  of  Sex  Slavery 
The  New  Attack  on   Marriage 
A    Forgotten    Conference    of    Marrie 

Men 

Hearth   and  Home 

Too  Much  of  a  Good  Thing 

Large  and  Small    ramilies     . 

Tlie  Ci()sj)el  of   Laodicea 

For    Better    For   Worse 

Wanted:  an  Innnoral  Statesman   . 

The  Limits  of  Democracy     . 

The  Science  and  .Vrt  of  Politics  . 

Why    Statesmen    Sliirk    the    Marriage 

Question  ..... 
The  (Question  of  Population 
The  Right  to  Motherhood  . 
Monogamy,  Polygyny,  and  Polyandry 
The  Male  Revolt  against  Polygyny 
DiflFerence  between  Oriental  and  Occi- 
dental Polygyny 
The  Old  Maid's  Right  to  Motherhood 
Ibsen's  Chain  Stitch 
Reulotencss  of  the  Facts  from  the  Ideal 
Difficulty  of  Obtaining  E^•idence 
Marriage  as  a  Magic  Spell 
The  Impersonality  of  Sex  . 
The  Economic  Slavery  of  Women 
Unpopularity  of  Impersonal  Views 
Impersonality  is  not  Promiscuity 
Domestic  Change  of  Air 
Home  Manners  are  Bad  Manners 


117 


119 
120 
121 

123 
126 

127 
131 
134 
135 
136 
139 
141 
143 
144 

145 
146 
148 
149 
150 

151 
153 
154 
156 
157 
159 
160 
163 
164 
165 
166 
168 


Contents 


Spurious  "  Natural  "  Affection    . 
Carrying   the    War    into    the    Enemy's 

Country 

Shelley  and  Queen  Victoria 

A  Probable  Effect  of  Gi\-ing  Women 

the  Vote 

The    Personal    Sentimental    Basis    of 

Monogamy  ..... 

Divorce 

Importance  of  Sentimental  Grievances 
Divorce  Without  Asking  Why 
Economic     Slavery     again     the     Root 

Difficulty      .       '. 
Labor     Exchanges     and     the     White 

Slavery  ..... 
Divorce  Favorable  to  Marriage  . 
Male    Economics    and    the  Rights    of 

Bachelors     ..... 
The  Patliology  of  Marriage 
The  Criminology  of  Marriage 
Does  it  Matter  .>'     .... 
Christian  Marriage 
Divorce  a  Sacramental  Duty 
Othello  and    Desdemona 
What  is  to  become  of  the  Children.'' 
The  Cost  of  Divorce 
Conclusions      ..... 


168 

170 
171 

17^2 

173 
177 
179 
180 

185 

182 
184 

186 
189 
191 
192 
193 
195 
196 
198 
203 
204 


The  Shewing-Up   of  Blanco   Posnet:   a 

JMelodrama 300 


Preface — The   Censorship          .         .         .323 
A  Readable   Bluebook    ....      823 
How  Not  to  Do  it          .         .         .         .      324 
The  Story  of  The  Joint  Select  Com- 
mittee * 327 


Contents 


Wliy   tl>e   Managers   Low  the   Censor 
ship       ...... 

A  Two  Guinea  Insurancf   Policy 

^Miy  the  Government   Interfered 

Tlie   Peers    on   the   Joint   Select   Com 
mittcr  ..... 

Tlic   Committee's   Attitude   toward   ti)( 
The.-itre         ..... 

A  Bad  Bejiinninfj   .... 

A  Comic   Interludf 

An  Anti-Shavian  Panic 

A  U  ire  and  Curious   I'irst  Edition 

The  Times  to  tiie  Rescue 

The  Council  of  Ten 

The  Sentence  .... 

The  Execution         .... 
The  Rejected   Statement — The  Witness' 
(Qualifications       .... 

The   Definition  of  Inmiorality 

What   Tokration   means 

The  Case  for  Toleration 

The  Limits  to  Toleration 

The     Difference     between     Law     and 
Censorship  .... 

\\1iy  the  lyord  Chamberlain.^ 

The  Diplomatic  Objection  to  the  L<jrd 
Chamberlain         .... 

The  Objection  of  Court  Etiquet   . 

Why  not  an  Enlightened  Censorship 

The  Weakness  of  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain's   Department 

An  Enlightened  Censorship  still  Worse 
than  the  Lord  Chamberlain's     . 

The    Practical   Impossibilities   of   Ccn 
sorship  ..... 

The  Arbitration  Proposal 


328 
330 
331 

333 

am 

33i 
336 
337 
338 
339 
3i0 
311 
31-2 

31-.') 
3Kj 
319 
3.0O 
352 

354 
358 

359 
360 
361 

364. 

366 

368 
371 


Contents 

The  Licensing  of  Theatres — Tlie  Dis- 
tinction between  Licensing  and  Cen- 
sorship            373 

Prostitution  and  Drink  in  Theatres     .  374 
Why     the      Managers      dread      Local 

Control 376 

Desirable  Limitations  of  Local  Control  377 
Summary  of  the  Rejected  Statement   .  381 
Preface     Resumed — Mr.     George     Alex- 
ander's Protest 385 

Eliza  and  Her  Bath      ....  387 

A  King's  Proctor 388 

Counsel's   Opinion           ....  390 

Wanted:  A  New  Magna  Charta^            .  390 

Proposed:  A  New  Star  Chamber         .  391 

Possibilities   of  the   Proposal        .         .  394- 

Star   Chamber  Sentimentality        .         .  396 

Anything  for  a  Quiet  Life    .         .         .  398 

Shall  the   Examiner   of   Plays  Starve.''  400 
Lord  Gorell's  Awakening      .         .         .401 

Judges:  Their  Professional  Limitations  403 

Conclusion 403 

Postscript 405 


PREFACE    OX    DOCTORS 

It  is  not  the  f,-iult  of  our  doctors  that  tlie  im-dioal  service 
of  tlic  coimminity,  .is  at  ])ri\stnt  provided  for,  is  a  mur- 
derous absurdity.  That  any  sane  nation,  havinij  ob- 
served tliat  you  couhl  provide  for  tlio  supply  of  bread  by 
giving  bakers  a  pecuniary  interest  in  baking  for  you, 
should  go  on  to  give  a  surgeon  a  pecuniary  interest  in 
cutting  otT  your  leg.  is  enough  to  make  one  despair  of 
political  humanity.  But  that  is  precisely  what  we  have 
done.  And  the  more  appalling  the  mutilation,  the  more 
the  mtitilntor  is  paid.  He  who  corrects  the  ingrowing 
toe-n.-'il  receives  a  few  shillings:  he  who  cuts  your  inside 
out  receives  hundreds  of  guineas,  except  when  he  docs  it 
to  a  poor  person  for  practice. 

Scandalized  voices  murmur  that  these  operations  are 
necessary.  They  may  be.  It  may  also  Ix"  necessary  to 
hang  a  man  or  pull  down  a  house.  But  we  take  good 
care  not  to  make  the  hangman  and  the  housebreaker  the 
judges  of  that.  If  we  did,  no  man's  neck  would  be  safe 
and  no  man's  house  stable.  But  we  do  make  the  doctor 
the  judge,  and  fine  him  an^'thing  from  sixpence  to  sev- 
eral hundred  guineas  if  he  decides  in  our  favor.  I  can- 
not knock  my  shins  severely  without  forcing  on  some 
surgeon  the  ditiicult  question,  "  Could  I  not  make  a 
better  use  of  a  pocketful  of  guineas  than  this  man  is 
making  of  his  leg?  Could  he  not  write  as  well — or  even 
better — on  one  leg  than  on  two  }     And  the  guineas  would 

V 


vi  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

make  all  the  difference  in  the  world  to  me  just  now. 
My  wife — my  pretty  ones — the  leg  may  mortify — it  is 
always  safer  to  operate — he  will  be  well  in  a  fortnight 
— artificial  legs  are  now  so  well  made  that  tliey  are 
really  better  than  natural  ones — evolution  is  towards 
motors  and  leglessness,  &c.,  &c.,  &c." 

Now  there  is  no  calculation  that  an  engineer  can  make 
as  to  the  behavior  of  a  girder  under  a  strain,  or  an 
astronomer  as  to  the  recurrence  of  a  comet,  more  certain 
than  the  calculation  that  under  such  circumstances  we 
shall  Ix;  dismembered  imnccessarily  in  all  directions  by 
surgeons  who  believe  the  ojicrations  to  be  necessary 
solely  because  they  want  to  perform  tliem.  The  process 
metaphorically  called  bleeding  the  rich  tnan  is  performed 
not  only  metaphorically  but  literally  every  day  by  sur- 
geons who  are  quite  as  honest  as  most  of  us.  After  all, 
what  harm  is  there  in  it?  The  surgeon  need  not  take 
off  the  rich  man's  (or  woman's)  leg  or  arm:  he  can 
remove  the  appendix  or  the  uvula,  and  leave  the  jiatient 
none  the  worse  after  a  fortnight  or  so  in  bed,  whilst  the 
nurse,  the  general  practitioner,  the  apothecary,  and  the 
surgeon  will  be  tlie  better. 

Doubtful  Character  borne  by  the  Medical 
Profession 

Again  I  hear  the  voices  indignantly  muttering  old 
phrases  about  the  high  character  of  a  noble  profession 
and  tlie  honor  and  conscience  of  its  members.  I  must 
reply  that  the  medical  profession  has  not  a  high  char- 
acter: it  has  an  infamous  character.  I  do  not  know  a 
single  thoughtful  and  well-informed  person  who  does  not 
feel  that  the  tragedy  of  illness  at  present  is  that  it  de- 
livers you  helplessly  into  the  hands  of  a  profession 
which  you  deeply  mistrust,  because  it  not  only  advocates 
and  practises  the  most  revolting  cruelties  in  the  pursuit 


Preface  on  Doctors  vii 

of  knowledge,  and  justifies  them  on  grounds  wliieh  would 
equally  justify  practising  the  same  cruelties  on  your- 
self or  your  children,  or  burning  down  London  to  test 
a  patent  fire  extinguisher,  but,  when  it  has  shocked  the 
public,  tries  to  reassure  it  with  lies  of  breath-bereaving 
brazenness.  That  is  the  character  the  medical  profes- 
sion has  got  just  now.  It  may  be  deserved  or  it  may 
not:  there  it  is  at  all  events,  and  the  doctors  who  hive 
not  realized  this  are  living  in  a  fool's  paradise.  As  to 
tlie  honor  and  conscience  of  doctors,  they  have  as  much 
as  any  other  class  of  men,  no  more  and  no  less.  And 
what  other  men  dare  pretend  to  be  impartial  where  they 
have  a  strong  jiecuniary  interest  on  one  side.''  Nobody 
supposes  that  doctors  are  less  virtuous  than  judges; 
but  a  judge  whose  salary  and  reputation  dej>tnded  on 
whether  the  verdict  was  for  plaintiff  or  defendant, 
prosecutor  or  prisoner,  would  be  as  little  trusted  as  a 
general  in  the  pay  of  the  enemy.  To  offer  me  a  doctor 
as  my  judge,  and  then  weight  his  decision  with  a  bribe 
of  a  large  sum  of  money  and  a  virtual  guarantee  that  if 
he  makes  a  mistake  it  can  never  be  proved  against  him, 
is  to  go  wildly  beyond  tlie  ascertained  strain  which 
human  nature  will  bear.  It  is  simply  unscientific  to 
allege  or  believe  that  doctors  do  not  under  existing  cir- 
cumstances perform  unnecessary  operations  and  manu- 
facture and  prolong  lucrative  illnesses.  The  only  ones 
who  can  elnim  to  be  above  suspicion  are  those  who  are 
so  much  sought  after  that  their  cured  patients  are  im-  ) 
mediately  replaced  by  fresh  ones.  And  there  is  this 
curious  psychological  fact  to  be  remembered :  a  serious 
illness  or  a  death  advertizes  the  doctor  exactly  as  a 
hanging  advertizes  the  barrister  who  defended  the  per- 
son hanged.  Suppose,  for  example,  a  royal  personage 
gets  something  wrong  with  his  throat,  or  has  a  pain 
ir  his  inside.  If  a  doctor  effects  some  trumpery  cure 
with  a  wet  compress   or  a  peppermint  lozenge  nobody 


viii  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

takes  the  least  notice  of  him.  But  if  he  operates  on 
the  throat  and  kills  the  patient,  or  extirpates  an  in- 
ternal organ  and  keeps  the  whole  nation  palpitating  for 
days  whilst  the  patient  hovers  in  pain  and  fever  between 
life  and  death,  his  fortune  is  made:  every  rich  man  who 
omits  to  call  him  in  when  the  same  symptoms  appear  in 
his  household  is  held  not  to  have  done  his  utmost  duty 
to  the  patient.  The  wonder  is  that  there  is  a  king  or 
queen  left  alive  in  Europe. 

Doctor's  Consciences 

There  is  another  difficulty  in  trusting  to  the  honor  and 
conscience  of  a  doctor.  Doctors  are  just  like  other 
Englishmen :  most  of  them  have  no  honor  and  no  con- 
science: what  they  commonly  mistake  for  these  is  sen- 
timentality and  an  intense  dread  of  doing  anything  that 
everybody  else  does  not  do,  or  omitting  to  do  anything 
that  everybody  else  does.  This  of  course  does  amount 
to  a  sort  of  working  or  rule-of-thumb  conscience;  but 
it  means  that  you  will  do  anything,  good  or  bad,  pro- 
•^  vided  you  get  enough  people  to  keep  you  in  countenance 

**  by  doing  it  also.     It  is  the  sort  of  conscience  that  makes 

r  it  possible  to  keep  order  on  a  pirate  ship,  or  in  a  troop 

of  brigands.  It  may  be  said  that  in  the  last  analysis 
there  is  no  other  sort  of  honor  or  conscience  in  existence 
— that  the  assent  of  the  majority  is  the  only  sanction 
kno^vn  to  ethics.  No  doubt  this  holds  good  in  political 
practice.  If  mankind  knew  the  facts,  and  agreed  with 
the  doctors,  then  the  doctors  would  be  in  the  right;  and 
any  person  who  thought  otherwise  would  be  a  lunatic. 
But  mankind  does  not  agree,  and  does  not  know  the 
facts.  All  that  can  be  said  for  medical  popularity  is 
that  until  there  is  a  practicable  alternative  to  blind  trust 
in  the  doctor,  the  truth  about  the  doctor  is  so  terrible 
that  we  dare  not  face  it.     Moliere  saw  through  the  doc- 


Preface  on  Doctors  ix 

tors;  but  he  had  to  call  them  in  jxist  the  same.  Napoleon 
had  no  illusions  about  them ;  but  he  had  to  die  vuider 
their  treatment  just  as  much  as  the  most  credulous 
ignoranuis  that  ever  paid  sixjience  for  a  bottle  of  strong 
medicine.  In  this  prtdicament  most  people,  to  save 
themselves  from  unbearable  mistrust  and  misery,  or  from 
being  driven  by  their  conscience  into  actual  conflict  with 
the  law,  fall  back  on  the  old  rule  that  if  you  cannot 
have  what  you  believe  in  you  must  believe  in  what  you 
have.  When  your  child  is  ill  or  your  wife  dying,  and 
you  happen  to  be  very  fond  of  them,  or  even  when,  if 
you  are  not  fond  of  them,  j'ou  are  human  enough  to 
forget  every  personal  grudge  before  the  siiectacle  of  a 
fellow  creature  in  pain  or  peril,  what  you  want  is  com- 
fort, reassurance,  something  to  clutch  at,  were  it  but  a 
straw.  This  the  doctor  brings  you.  You  have  a  \vildly 
urgent  feeling  that  something  nnist  be  done;  and  the 
doctor  does  something.  Sometimes  wliat  he  does  kills 
the  patient;  but  you  do  not  know  that;  and  the  doctor 
assures  you  that  all  that  human  skill  could  do  has  been 
done.  And  nobody  has  the  brutality  to  say  to  the  newly 
bereft  father,  mother,  husband,  wife,  brother,  or  sister, 
"  You  have  killed  your  lost  darling  by  your  credulity." 

The  Peculiar  People 

Besides,  the  calling  in  of  the  doctor  is  now  compulsory 
except  in  cases  where  the  patient  is  an  adult  and  not  too 
ill  to  decide  the  steps  to  be  taken.  We  are  subject  to 
prosecution  for  manslaughter  or  for  criminal  neglect  if 
the  patient  dies  without  the  consolations  of  the  medical 
profession.  This  menace  is  kept  before  the  public  by 
the  Peculiar  People.  The  Peculiars,  as  they  are  called, 
have  gained  their  name  by  believing  that  the  Bible  is 
infallible,  and  taking  their  belief  quite  seriously.  The 
Bible  is  very  clear  as  to  the  treatment  of  illness.     The 


X  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

Epistle  of  James,  chapter  v.,  contains  tlie  following  ex- 
plicit directions: 

14.  Is  any  sick  among  you?  let  him  call  for  the 
elders  of  the  Church;  and  let  them  pray  over  him, 
anointing  him  witli  oil  in  the  name  of  the  Lord: 

15.  And  tlie  prayer  of  faith  shall  save  tlie  sick, 
and  the  Lord  shall  raise  him  up;  and  if  he  have 
committed  sins,  they  shall  be   forgiven  him. 

The  Peculiars  obey  these  instructions  and  dispense  with 
doctors.  They  are  therefore  prosecuted  for  manslaugh- 
ter when  their  children  die. 

When  I  was  a  young  man,  the  Peculiars  were  usually 
acquitted.  The  prosecution  broke  down  wlicn  the  doc- 
tor in  the  witness  box  was  askid  whctliVr,  if  the  cliild 
had  had  medical  attendance,  it  would  have  Uved.  It 
was,  of  course,  impossible  for  any  man  of  sense  and 
honor  to  assume  divine  omniscience  by  answering  this  in 
the  affirmative,  or  indeed  pretending  to  be  able  to  an- 
swer it  at  all.  /Vnd  on  this  the  judge  had  to  instruct 
the  jury  that  tliey  must  acquit  the  prisoner.  Thus  a 
judge  witli  a  keen  sense  of  law  (a  very  rare  phenomenon 
on  the  Bench,  by  the  way)  was  spared  the  possibility 
of  having  to  sentence  one  prisoner  (under  the  Blas- 
phemy Laws)  for  questioning  the  authority  of  Scripture, 
and  another  for  ignorantly  and  supcrstitiously  accepting 
it  as  a  guide  to  conduct.  To-day  all  tliis  is  changed. 
The  doctor  never  liesitates  to  claim  divine  omniscience, 
nor  to  clamor  for  laws  to  punish  any  scepticism  on  the 
part  of  laymen.  A  modern  doctor  thinks  nothing  of 
signing  the  death  certificate  of  one  of  his  own  diphtheria 
patients,  and  then  going  into  the  witness  box  and  swear- 
ing a  Peculiar  into  prison  for  six  months  by  assuring 
the  jury,  on  oath,  tliat  if  the  jjrisoner's  child,  dead  of 
diphtheria,  had  been  placed  under  his  treatment  instead 
of  that  of  St.  James,  it  would  not  have  died.  And  he 
does   so  not  only   with    impunity,   but   with   public   ap- 


Preface  on  Doctors  xi 

plause,  though  the  logical  course  would  be  to  prosecute 
him  eitlitr  for  the  murder  of  his  own  patient  or  for 
jKTJury  in  the  case  of  St.  James.  Ytt  no  barrister, 
aj)j)arently,  dreams  of  asking  for  the  statistics  of  the 
relative  case-mortality  in  di])htheria  among  the  Peculiars 
and  among  the  believers  in  doctors,  on  wliich  alone  any 
valid  opinion  could  be  founded.  The  barrister  is  as 
superstitious  as  the  doctor  is  infatuated;  and  the  Peculiar 
goes  un))itied  to  his  cell,  though  nothing  whatever  has 
been  proved  except  that  his  child  does  without  tlie  inter- 
ferenei-  of  a  doctor  as  elTeetually  as  any  of  the  hundreds 
of  children  who  die  every  day  of  the  same  diseases  in 
the  doctor's  care. 

Recoil  of  the  Dogma  of  Medical  Infallibility 
on  the  Doctor 

On  the  other  hand,  when  the  doctor  is  in  the  dock,  or 
is  the  defendant  in  an  action  for  malpractice,  he  has  to 
struggle  against  the  inevitable  result  of  his  former  pre- 
tences to  infinite  knowledge  and  unerring  skill.  He  has 
taught  the  jury  and  tlie  judge,  and  even  his  own  coun- 
sel, to  believe  that  every  doctor  can,  with  a  glance  at 
tlie  tongue,  a  touch  on  the  pulse,  and  a  reading  of  the 
clinical  thermometer,  diagnose  with  absolute  certainty  a 
patient's  complaint,  also  that  on  dissecting  a  dead  body 
he  can  infalliby  put  his  finger  on  the  cause  of  death, 
and,  in  cases  where  poisoning  is  suspected,  the  nature 
of  the  poison  used.  Now  all  this  supposed  exactness 
and  infallibility  is  imaginary;  and  to  treat  a  doctor  as 
if  his  mistakes  were  necessarily  malicious  or  corrupt 
uial))ractices  (an  inevitable  deduction  from  the  postulate 
that  the  doctor,  being  omniscient,  cannot  make  mistakes) 
is  as  unjust  as  to  blame  the  nearest  apothecary  for  not 
being  prepared  to  supply  you  with  sixpenny- worth  of 
the   elixir  of  life,  or  the  nearest  motor   garage   for  not 


xii  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

having  perpetual  motion  on  sale  in  gallon  tins.  But  if 
apothecaries  and  motor  car  makers  habitually  advertized 
elixir  of  life  and  perpetual  motion,  and  succeeded  in 
creating  a  strong  general  belief  that  they  could  supply 
it,  they  would  find  themselves  in  an  awkward  position 
if  they  were  indicted  for  allowing  a  customer  to  die, 
or  for  burning  a  chauffeur  by  putting  petrol  into  his 
car.  That  is  the  predicament  the  doctor  rinds  himself 
in  when  he  has  to  defend  himself  against  a  charge  of 
malpractice  by  a  jilea  of  ignorance  and  fallibility.  His 
plea  is  received  witli  flat  credulity;  and  he  gets  little 
sympathy,  even  from  laymen  who  know,  because  he  has 
brought  the  incredulity  on  himself.  If  he  escapes,  he 
can  only  do  so  by  opening  the  eyes  of  bhe  jury  to  the 
facts  that  medical  science  is  as  yet  very  imperfectly 
differentiated  from  common  curemongering  witchcraft; 
that  diagnosis,  though  it  means  in  many  instances  (in- 
eluding  even  the  identification  of  pathogenic  bacilli  un- 
der the  microscope)  only  a  choice  among  terms  so  loose 
that  they  would  not  be  accepted  as  definitions  in  any 
really  exact  science,  is,  even  at  that,  an  uncertain  and 
difiicult  matter  on  which  doctors  often  differ;  and  that  the 
very  best  medical  opinion  and  treatment  varies  widely 
from  doctor  to  doctor,  one  practitioner  prescribing  six 
or  seven  scheduled  poisons  for  so  familiar  a  disease  as 
enteric  fever  where  another  will  not  tolerate  drugs  at 
all;  one  starving  a  patient  whom  another  would  stuff; 
one  urging  an  operation  which  another  would  regard  as 
unnecessary  and  dangerous ;  one  giving  alcohol  and  meat 
which  another  would  sternly  forbid,  &c.,  &c.,  &c. :  all 
these  discrepancies  arising  not  between  the  opinion  of 
good  doctors  and  bad  ones  (the  medical  contention  is, 
of  course,  that  a  bad  doctor  is  an  impossibility),  but 
between  practitioners  of  equal  eminence  and  authority. 
Usually  it  is  impossible  to  persuade  the  jury  that  these 
facts   are  facts.      Juries  seldom  notice  facts;   and  thev 


Preface  on  Doctors  xiii 

have  been  taught  to  regard  any  doubts  of  the  omni- 
science and  omnipotence  of  doctors  as  blasphemy.  Even 
the  fact  that  doctors  themselves  die  of  the  very  diseases 
they  profess  to  cure  passes  unnoticed.  We  do  not  shoot 
out  our  lips  and  shake  our  heads,  saying,  "  They  save 
others:  themselves  they  cannot  save":  tlieir  reputation 
stands,  like  an  African  king's  palace,  on  a  foundation 
of  dead  bodies ;  and  the  result  is  that  the  verdict  goes 
against  the  defendant  when  the  defendant  is  a  doctor 
accused  of  malpractice. 

Fortunately  for  the  doctors,  they  very  seldom  find 
themselves  in  this  position,  because  it  is  so  difficult  to 
prove  anything  against  them.  The  only  evidence  that 
can  decide  a  case  of  malpractice  is  expert  evidence:  that 
is,  the  evidence  of  other  doctors;  and  every  doctor  will 
allow  a  colleague  to  decimate  a  whole  countryside  sooner 
than  violate  the  bond  of  professional  etiquet  by  giving 
him  away.  It  is  the  nurse  who  gives  the  doctor  away 
in  private,  because  every  nurse  has  some  particular  doc- 
tor whom  she  likes;  and  she  usually  assures  her  patients 
that  all  the  others  are  disastrous  noodles,  and  soothes  the 
tedium  of  the  sick-bed  by  gossip  about  their  blunders. 
She  will  even  give  a  doctor  away  for  the  sake  of  mak- 
ing the  patient  believe  tiiat  she  knows  more  than  the 
doctor.  But  she  dare  not,  for  her  livelihood,  give  the 
doctor  away  in  public.  And  the  doctors  stand  by  one 
another  at  all  costs.  Now  and  then  some  doctor  in  an 
unassailable  position,  like  the  late  Sir  William  Gull, 
will  go  into  the  witness  box  and  say  what  he  really 
thinks  about  the  way  a  patient  has  been  treated;  but 
such  behavior  is  considered  little  short  of  infamous  by 
his  colleagues. 


xiv  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

Why  Doctors  do  not  Differ 

The  truth  is,  there  would  never  be  any  publie  agree- 
ment among  doctors  if  they  did  not  agree  to  agree  on  the 
main  point  of  the  doctor  being  always  in  the  right.  Yet 
the  two  guinea  man  never  thinks  that  the  five  shilling 
man  is  right:  if  he  did,  he  would  be  understood  as  con- 
fessing to  an  overcharge  of  t"l:17s. ;  and  on  the  same 
ground  the  rive  shilling  man  cannot  encourage  the  notion 
that  the  o^\^^er  of  the  sixpenny  surgery  round  the  cor- 
ner is  quite  up  to  his  mark.  Thus  even  the  layman 
has  to  be  taught  that  infallibility  is  not  quite  infallible, 
because  there  are  two  qualities  of  it  to  b<j  had  at  two 
prices. 

But  there  is  no  agreement  even  in  the  same  rank  at 
the  same  price.  During  the  rirst  great  epidemic  of  in- 
fluenza towards  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century  a 
London  evening  paper  sent  round  a  journalist-patient 
to  all  the  great  consultants  of  that  day.  and  published 
their  advice  and  jireserijitions ;  a  proceeding  passionately 
denounced  by  the  medical  jiajnrs  as  a  breach  of  con- 
fidence of  these  eminent  jihysicians.  The  case  was  the 
same;  but  the  preserij)tions  were  different,  and  so  was 
the  advice.  Now  a  doctor  cannot  think  his  own  treatment 
right  and  at  the  same  time  think  his  colleague  right  in 
prescribing  a  different  treatment  when  the  patient  is  the 
same.  Anyone  who  has  ever  known  doctors  well  enough 
to  hear  medical  shop  talked  without  reserve  knows  that 
they  are  full  of  stories  about  each  other's  blunders  and 
errors,  and  that  the  theory  of  their  omniscience  and  om- 
nipotence no  more  holds  good  among  themselves  than  it 
did  with  Moliere  and  Napoleon.  But  for  this  very  rea- 
son no  doctor  dare  accuse  another  of  malpractice.  He  is 
not  sure  enough  of  his  own  opinion  to  ruin  another  man 
by  it.  He  knows  that  if  such  conduct  were  tolerated  in 
his  profession  no  doctor's  livelihood  or  reputation  would 


Preface  on  Doctors  xv 

bo  wortli  a  year's  purchase.  I  do  not  blame  him :  I 
shouhl  do  the  same  myself.  But  the  elTect  of  this  state 
of  thiiifxs  is  to  makf  the  medical  profession  a  conspiracy 
to  liidc  its  own  shortcomings.  No  doubt  the  same  may 
be  said  of  all  professions.  They  are  all  conspiracies 
against  the  laity;  and  I  do  not  suggest  that  the  medical 
consjjiraey  is  either  better  or  worse  than  the  military 
conspiracy,  the  legal  coiisj)iracy,  the  sacerdotal  con- 
spiracy, the  j)edagogic  eonsj)iracy,  the  royal  and  aris- 
toeratie  conspiracy,  the  literary  and  artistic  conspiracy, 
and  the  innumerable  industrial,  commercial,  and  financial 
conspiracies,  from  the  trade  unions  to  the  great  ex- 
clianges,  which  make  up  the  huge  conflict  which  we  call 
society.  But  it  is  less  sus))ected.  The  Radicals  who 
used  to  advocate,  as  an  indispensable  preliminary  to 
social  reform,  the  strangling  of  the  last  king  with  the 
entrails  of  the  last  priest,  suhstituti'd  compulsory  vac- 
cination for  compulsory  baptism  without  a  murmur. 

The  Craze  for  Operations 

Thus  everything  is  on  the  side  of  the  doctor.  When 
men  die  of  disease  they  are  said  to  die  from  natural 
causes.  When  they  recover  (and  they  mostly  do)  the 
doctor  gets  the  credit  of  curing  them.  In  surgery  all 
operations  are  recorded  as  successful  if  the  patient  can 
be  got  out  of  the  hospital  or  nursing  home  alive,  though 
the  subsequent  history  of  the  ease  may  be  such  as  would 
make  an  honest  surgeon  vow  never  to  recommend  or 
perform  the  operation  again.  The  large  range  of  opera- 
tions which  consist  of  amputating  limbs  and  extirpating 
organs  admits  of  no  direct  verification  of  their  necessity. 
There  is  a  fashion  in  operations  as  there  is  in  sleeves 
and  skirts:  the  triumph  of  some  surgeon  who  has  at  last 
found  out  how  to  make  a  once  desperate  operation  fairly 
safe  is  usually  followed  by  a  rage  for  that  operation  not 


xvi  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

only  amonfif  tlie  doctors,  but  actimlly  anionp^  thrir  pa- 
tients. There  are  nun  and  women  whom  the  operating 
table  seems  to  fascinate:  half-alive  people  who  through 
vanity,  or  hypochondria,  or  a  craving  to  be  the  constant 
objects  of  anxious  attention  or  what  not,  lose  such  feeble 
sense  as  they  ever  had  of  the  value  of  their  own  organs 
and  limbs.  They  seem  to  care  as  little  for  mutilation 
as  lobsters  or  lizards,  which  at  least  have  the  excuse  that 
they  grow  new  claws  and  new  tails  if  they  lose  the  old 
ones.  Whilst  this  book  was  being  prepared  for  the  press 
a  case  was  tried  in  the  Courts,  of  a  man  who  sued  i 
railway  company  for  damages  because  a  train  had  run 
over  him  and  amputated  both  his  legs.  He  lost  his 
case  because  it  Mas  proved  that  he  had  deliberately  con- 
trived the  occurrence  himstlf  for  the  sake  of  getting  an 
idler's  pension  at  the  expense  of  the  railway  comjjnny, 
being  too  dull  to  realize  how  much  more  he  had  to  lose 
than  to  gain  by  the  bargain  even  if  he  had  won  his  case 
and  received  damages  above  his  utmost  hopes. 

This  amazing  case  makes  it  ])ossible  to  say.  with  some 
prospect  of  being  believed,  that  there  is  in  the  classes 
who  can  afford  to  pay  for  fashionable  ojierations  a 
sprinkling  of  persons  so  incapable  of  a|)preoiating  the 
relntivf  importance  of  j)reserving  their  bodily  integrity 
(including  the  capacity  for  parentage)  and  the  pleas- 
ure of  talking  about  themselves  and  hearing  themselves 
talked  alx)ut  as  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  sensational 
operations,  that  they  tempt  surgeons  to  operate  on  them 
not  only  with  huge  fees,  but  with  personal  solicitation. 
Now  it  cannot  be  too  often  repeated  that  when  an  oper- 
ation is  once  performed,  nobody  can  ever  prove  that  it 
was  unnecessary.  If  I  refuse  to  allow  my  leg  to  be 
amputated,  its  mortification  and  my  death  may  prove 
that  I  was  wrong;  but  if  I  let  the  leg  go.  nobody  can 
ever  prove  that  it  would  not  have  mortified  had  I  been 
obstinate.     Operation  is  therefore  the  safe  side  for  the 


Preface  on  Doctors  xvii 

surgeon  as  well  as  the  lucrative  side.  The  result  is  that 
we  Iiear  of  "  conservative  surgeons  "  as  a  distinct  class 
of  practitioners  who  make  it  a  rule  not  to  operate  if  they 
can  possibly  help  it,  and  who  are  sought  after  by  the 
people  who  have  vitility  (iiough  to  regard  an  ojieration 
as  a  last  resort.  But  no  surgeon  is  bound  to  take  the 
conservative  view.  If  he  believes  that  an  organ  is  at 
best  a  useless  survival,  and  that  if  he  extirpates  it  the 
patient  will  be  well  and  none  the  worse  in  a  fortnight, 
whereas  to  await  tiie  natural  cure  would  mean  a  month's 
illness,  then  he  is  clearly  justified  in  recommending  the 
operation  even  if  the  cure  without  operation  is  as  certain 
as  anything  of  the  kind  ever  can  be.  Thus  the  con- 
servative surgeon  and  the  radical  or  extirpatory  surgeon 
may  both  be  right  as  far  as  the  ultimate  cure  is  con- 
cerned; so  that  their  consciences  do  not  help  them  out 
of  their  diflferences. 

Credulity  and  Chloroform 

There  is  no  harder  scientific  fact  in  the  world  than  the 
fact  that  belief  can  be  produced  in  practically  unlimited 
quantity  and  intensity,  without  observation  or  reasoning, 
irnd  even  in  defiance  of  both,  by  the  simjile  desire  to  be- 
lieve founded  on  a  strong  interest  in  believing.  Every- 
body recognizes  this  in  the  case  of  the  amatory  infatu- 
ations of  the  adolescents  who  see  angels  and  heroes  in 
obviously  (to  others)  commonplace  and  even  objection- 
able maidens  and  youths.  But  it  holds  good  over  the 
entire  field  of  human  activity.  The  hardest-headed  ma- 
terialist will  become  a  consulter  of  table-rappers  and 
slate-writers  if  he  loses  a  cliild  or  a  wife  so  beloved  that 
the  desire  to  revive  and  communicate  with  them  becomes 
irresistible.  The  cobbler  believes  that  there  is  nothing 
like  leather.  The  Imperialist  who  regards  the  conquest 
of  England  by  a  foreign  power  as  the  worst  of  political 


xviii  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

misfortunes  believes  that  the  conquest  of  a  foreign  power 
by  England  would  be  a  boon  to  the  conquered.  Doctors 
are  no  more  proof  against  such  illusions  than  other  men. 
Can  anyone  then  doubt  that  under  existing  conditions  a 
great  deal  of  unnecessary  and  mischievous  operating  is 
bound  to  go  on,  and  that  patients  are  encouraged  to 
imagine  that  modern  surgery  and  anesthesia  have  made 
operations  much  less  serious  matters  than  they  really 
are?  When  doctors  write  or  speak  to  the  public  about 
operations,  they  imply,  and  often  say  in  so  many  words, 
that  chloroform  has  made  surgery  painless.  People  who 
have  been  operated  on  know  better.  The  patient  does 
not  feel  the  knife,  and  the  operation  is  therefore  enor- 
mously faeilitatrd  for  the  surg«'on ;  but  the  j^atient  pays 
for  tlie  .nustlKsia  with  hours  of  wretched  sickness;  and 
when  that  is  over  there  is  the  pain  of  the  wound  made 
by  the  surgeon,  which  has  to  heal  like  any  other  wound. 
This  is  why  operating  surgeons,  who  arc  usually  out  of 
the  house  with  their  fee  in  their  jjockets  before  the  pa- 
tient has  recovered  consciousness,  and  who  therefore  see 
nothing  of  the  suffering  witnessed  by  the  general  prac- 
titioner and  the  nurse,  occasionally  talk  of  operations 
very  much  as  the  hangman  in  Uarnaby  Rudge  talked  of 
executions,  as  if  being  operated  on  were  a  luxury  in 
sensation  as  well  as  in  price. 

Medical  I'overty 

To  make  matters  worse,  doctors  are  hideously  poor. 
The  Irish  gentleman  doctor  of  my  boyhood,  who  took 
nothing  less  than  a  guinea,  though  he  might  pay  you 
four  visits  for  it,  seems  to  have  no  equivalent  nowadays 
in  English  society.  Better  be  a  railway  porter  than  an 
ordinary  English  general  practitioner.  A  railway  porter 
has  from  eighteen  to  twenty-three  shillings  a  week  from 
the  Company  merely  as  a  retainer;   and  his  additional 


Preface  on  Doctors  xix 

fees  from  the  public,  if  wc  leave  the  third-class  two- 
penny tip  out  of  account  (and  I  am  by  no  means  sure 
that  even  this  reservation  need  be  made),  are  equivalent 
to  doctor's  fees  in  the  case  of  second-class  passengers, 
and  double  doctor's  fees  in  the  case  of  first.  Any  class 
of  educated  men  thus  treated  tends  to  become  a  brigand 
class,  and  doctors  are  no  exception  to  the  rule.  They 
are  offered  disgraceful  prices  for  advice  and  medicine. 
Their  patients  are  for  the  most  ivirt  so  poor  and  so 
ignorant  that  good  advice  would  be  resented  as  ini]irac- 
tieable  .-ind  wounding.  \\'lRn  you  are  so  poor  tliat  you 
cannot  afford  to  refuse  eighteenpence  from  a  man  who  is 
too  poor  to  pay  you  any  more,  it  is  useless  to  tell  him 
that  what  he  or  his  sick  child  needs  is  not  medicne,  but 
more  leisure,  better  clothes,  better  food,  and  a  better 
drained  and  ventilated  house.  It  is  kinder  to  give  him 
a  bottle  of  somttliing  almost  as  cheap  as  water,  and  tell 
him  to  come  again  witli  another  eighteen])ence  if  it  does 
not  cure  him.  When  you  have  done  that  over  and  over 
again  every  day  for  a  week,  how  much  scientific  con- 
science have  you  left.-*  If  you  are  weak-minded  enough 
to  cling  desperately  to  your  eighteenpence  as  denoting  a 
certain  social  superiority  to  the  sixpenny  doctor,  you  will 
be  miserably  poor  all  your  life;  whilst  the  sixpenny  doc- 
tor, with  his  low  ])riees  and  quick  turnover  of  patients, 
visibly  makes  much  more  than  you  do  and  kills  no  more 
people. 

A  doctor's  character  can  no  more  stand  out  against 
such  conditions  than  the  lungs  of  his  patients  can  stand 
out  against  bad  ventilation.  The  only  way  in  which  he 
can  preserve  his  self-respect  is  by  forgetting  all  he  ever 
learnt  of  science,  and  clinging  to  such  help  as  he  can 
give  without  cost  merely  by  being  less  ignorant  and  more 
accustomed  to  sick-beds  than  his  patients.  Finally,  he 
acquires  a  certain  skill  at  nursing  cases  under  poverty- 
stricken   domestic   conditions,  just  as  women  who  have 


XX  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

been  trained  ns  domestic  servants  in  some  huge  institu- 
tion with  lifts,  vacuum  cleaners,  electric  lightinp^,  steam 
heating,  and  machinery  that  turns  the  kitchen  into  a 
laboratory  and  engine  house  combined,  manage,  when 
they  are  sent  out  into  the  world  to  drudge  as  general 
servants,  to  pick  up  their  business  in  a  new  way,  learn- 
ing tlie  slatternly  habits  and  wretched  makeshifts  of 
homes  where  even  bundles  of  kindling  wood  are  luxuries 
to  be  anxiously  economized. 

The  Successful  Doctor 

The  doctor  whose  success  blinds  jmblic  opinion  to 
medical  poverty  is  almost  as  completely,  demoralized. 
His  j)romotion  means  that  his  practice  becomes  more  and 
more  confiiu'd  to  the  idle  rich.  The  jiroper  advice  for 
most  of  their  ailments  is  typified  in  Abernethy's  "Live 
on  sixpence  a  day  and  earn  it."  But  here,  as  at  the 
other  end  of  the  scale,  the  right  advice  is  neither  agree- 
able nor  practicable.  And  every  hypochondriacal  rich 
lady  or  gentleman  who  can  l)e  persuaded  that  he  or  she 
is  a  lifelong  invalid  means  anything  from  fifty  to  five 
hundred  pounds  a  year  for  the  doctor.  Ojierations  en- 
able a  surgeon  to  earn  similar  sums  in  a  couple  of  hours; 
and  if  the  surgeon  also  keeps  a  nursing  home,  he  may 
make  considerable  profits  at  the  same  time  by  running 
what  is  the  most  expensive  kind  of  hotel.  These  gains 
are  so  great  that  they  undo  much  of  the  moral  advan- 
tage which  the  absence  of  grinding  pecuniary  anxiety 
gives  the  rich  doctor  over  the  poor  one.  It  is  true  that 
the  temptation  to  prescribe  a  sham  treatment  because  the 
real  treatment  is  too  dear  for  either  patient  or  doctor 
does  not  exist  for  the  rich  doctor.  He  always  has  plenty 
of  genuine  cases  which  can  afford  genuine  treatment; 
and  these  provide  him  with  enough  sincere  scientific  pro- 
fessional work  to   save  him  from   the  ignorance,   obso- 


Preface  on  Doctors  xxi 

Icscencc,  and  atropliy  of  scientific  conscience  into  which 
his  poorer  colleagues  sink.  But  on  the  other  hand  his 
expenses  are  enormous.  Even  as  a  bachelor,  he  must, 
at  London  west  end  rates,  make  over  a  thousand  a  year 
before  he  can  aiTord  even  to  insure  liis  life.  His 
house,  his  servants,  and  his  equipage  (or  autopage) 
nuist  be  on  the  scale  to  which  his  j)atients  are  accus- 
tnnifd,  though  a  couple  of  rooms  with  a  camp  bed  in 
one  of  them  might  satisfy  his  own  requirements.  Above 
all.  the  income  which  jirovides  for  these  outgoings 
stojjs  the  moment  lie  himself  stops  working.  Unlike 
the  man  of  business,  whose  managers,  clerks,  ware- 
housemen and  laborers  keep  bis  business  going  whilst 
he  is  in  bed  or  in  his  club,  the  doctor  cannot  earn  a 
farthing  by  deputy.  Though  he  is  exceptionally  ixposed 
to  infection,  and  has  to  face  all  weathers  at  all  hours 
of  the  night  and  day,  often  not  enjoying  a  complete 
night's  rest  for  a  week,  the  money  stops  coming  in  the 
moment  he  stops  going  out;  and  therefore  illness  has 
special  terrors  for  him,  and  success  no  certain  perma- 
nence. He  dare  not  stop  making  hay  while  the  sun 
shines;  for  it  may  set  at  any  time.  Men  do  not  resist 
pressure  of  this  intensity.  When  tlie}-  come  under  it  as 
doctors  they  pay  unnecessary  visits;  they  write  pre- 
scriptions that  are  as  absurd  as  the  rub  of  chalk  with 
which  an  Irish  tailor  once  charmed  away  a  wart  from 
my  father's  finger;  they  conspire  with  surgeons  to  pro- 
mote operations ;  they  nurse  the  delusions  of  the  vialade 
imositinirr  (who  is  always  really  ill  because,  as  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  jicrfect  health,  nobody  is  ever  really 
well) ;  they  exploit  human  folly,  vanity,  and  fear  of 
deatli  as  ruthlessly  as  their  own  health,  strength,  and 
patience  are  exploited  by  selfish  hypochondriacs.  They 
must  do  all  these  things  or  else  run  pecuniary  risks  that 
no  man  can  fairly  be  asked  to  run.  And  the  healthier 
the  world  becomes,  the  more  they  arc  compelled  to  live 


xxii  Tlie  Doctor's  Dilcninia 

by  imposture  aiui  the  loss  by  tliat  really  iulpfnl  activity 
of  which  .all  doctors  <jct  cnoujjh  to  preserve  them  from 
utter  corru))tion.  Tor  even  the  most  hardened  humbug 
wiio  ever  priscribed  ether  tonics  to  ladies  whose  need 
for  tonics  is  of  precisely  the  same  character  as  the  need 
of  poorer  women  for  a  glass  of  gin.  has  to  help  a  mother 
through  child-bearing  often  enough  to  feel  that  he  is  not 
living  wholly  in  vain. 

Tlie  Psyc'liology  of  Sclf-Rcspect  in 
Surgeons 

The  surgeon,  though  often  more  unscrupulous  than  the 
general  practitioner,  retains  his  self-respoct  more  easily. 
The  human  conscience  can  subsist  on  very  questionable 
food.  No  man  who  is  occupied  in  doing  a  very  ditfieult 
thing,  and  doing  it  very  well,  ever  loses  his  self-respect. 
The  shirk,  the  duffer,  the  malingerer,  the  coward,  the 
weakling,  may  be  put  out  of  countenance  by  his  own 
failures  and  frauds;  but  the  man  who  does  evil  skilfully, 
energetically,  masterfully,  grows  prouder  and  bolder  at 
every  crime.  The  common  man  may  have  to  found  his 
self-respect  on  sobriety,  honesty  and  industry;  but  a 
Napoleon  needs  no  such  props  for  his  sense  of  dignity. 
If  Nelson's  conscience  whispered  to  him  at  all  in  the 
silent  watches  of  the  night,  you  may  depend  on  it  it 
whispered  about  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile  and  Cape  St. 
Vincent,  and  not  about  his  unfaithfulness  to  his  wife. 
A  man  who  robs  little  children  when  no  one  is  looking 
can  hardly  have  much  self-respect  or  even  self-esteem; 
but  an  accomj)lished  burglar  must  be  proud  of  himself. 
In  the  play  to  which  I  am  at  present  preluding  I  have 
represented  an  artist  who  is  so  entirely  satisfied  with 
his  artistic  conscience,  even  to  the  point  of  dying  like  a 
saint  with  its  support,  that  he  is  utterly  selfish  and  un- 
scrupulous in  every  other  relation  without  feeling  at  the 


Preface  on  Doctors  xxiii 

smallest  disadvantaj;«\  The  same  thinf;  may  be  observed 
in  women  who  have  a  genius  for  ])ersonal  attractiveness: 
they  expend  more  tlioujjjht.  labor,  skill,  inventiveness, 
taste  and  enduranee  on  niakiiifj^  themselves  lovely  than 
would  suffice  to  keep  a  dozen  ugly  womi'n  honest ;  and 
this  enables  them  to  maintain  a  high  opinion  of  them- 
selves, and  an  angry  contempt  for  unattractive  and  per- 
sonally careless  women,  whilst  they  lie  and  cheat  and 
slander  and  sell  themselves  without  a  blush.  Tlie  truth 
is,  hardly  any  of  us  have  ethical  energy  enough  for  more 
than  one  really  inflexible  point  of  honor.  Andrea  del 
Sarto.  like  Louis  Dubedat  in  my  play,  must  have  ex- 
pended on  the  attainment  of  his  great  mastery  of  design 
and  his  originality  in  fresco  painting  more  conscien- 
tiousness and  industry  than  go  to  the  making  of  the 
reputations  of  a  dozen  ordinary  mayors  and  church- 
wardens; but  (if  \'asari  is  to  1k'  believed)  when  the 
King  of  1" ranee  entrusted  him  with  money  to  buy  ])ic- 
tures  for  him,  he  stole  it  to  spend  on  his  wife.  Such 
cases  are  not  confined  to  eminent  artists.  Unsuccessful, 
unskilful  men  are  often  much  more  scrupulous  than  suc- 
cessful ones.  In  the  ranks  of  ordinary  skilled  labor 
many  men  are  to  be  found  who  earn  good  wages  and 
are  never  out  of  a  job  because  they  are  strong,  inde- 
fatigable, and  skilful,  and  who  therefore  are  bold  in  a 
high  opinion  of  themselves;  but  they  are  selfish  and 
tyrannical,  gluttonous  and  drunken,  as  their  wives  and 
children  know  to  their  cost. 

Not  only  do  these  talented  energetic  })eoj)le  retain 
their  self-respect  through  shameful  misconduct:  they  do 
not  even  lose  the  respect  of  others,  because  their  talents 
benefit  and  interest  everybody,  whilst  their  vices  affect 
only  a  few.  An  actor,  a  painter,  a  composer,  an  author, 
may  be  as  selfish  as  he  likes  without  reproach  from  the 
public  if  only  his  art  is  superb;  and  he  cannot  fulfil 
this   condition   without   sufficient   effort   and   sacrifice   to 


xxiv  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

make  him  feel  noble  and  martyred  in  spite  of  his  selfish- 
ness. It  may  even  happen  tliat  the  selfishness  of  an 
artist  may  be  a  benefit  to  the  public  by  enabling  him 
to  concentrate  Iiimsclf  on  their  gratification  with  a  rtck- 
lessness  of  every  other  consideration  tliat  makes  him 
highly  dangerous  to  those  about  him.  In  sacrificing 
others  to  himself  he  is  sacrificing  them  to  the  public 
he  gratifies;  and  the  public  is  quite  content  with  that 
arrangement.  The  public  actually  has  an  interest  in  tlie 
artist's  vices. 

It  has  no  sucli  interest  in  tlie  surgeon's  vices.  The 
surgeon's  art  is  exercised  at  its  expense,  not  for  its 
gratification.  We  do  not  go  to  the  operating  table  as  we 
go  to  the  theatre,  to  the  picture  gallery,, to  tlie  concert 
room,  to  be  entertained  and  delighted:  we  go  to  be  tor- 
mented and  maimed,  lest  a  worse  thing  should  befall  us. 
It  is  of  the  most  extreme  importance  to  us  tliat  the  ex- 
perts on  whose  assurance  wc  f.iee  this  horror  and  suffer 
this  mutilation  should  have  no  interests  but  our  own  to 
think  of;  should  judge  our  cases  scientificall}- ;  and 
should  feel  about  them  kindly.  Let  us  see  what  guaran- 
tees we  have :  first  for  the  science,  and  then  for  the 
kindness. 

Are  Doctors  Men  of  Science? 

I  presume  nobody  will  question  the  existence  of  a 
widely  spread  popular  delusion  that  every  doctor  is  a 
man  of  science.  It  is  escaped  only  in  the  very  small 
class  which  understands  by  science  something  more  than 
conjuring  with  retorts  and  spirit  lamps,  magnets  and 
microscopes,  and  discovering  magical  cures  for  disease. 
To  a  sufficiently  ignorant  man  every  captain  of  a  trad- 
ing schooner  is  a  Galileo,  every  organ-grinder  a  Bee- 
thoven, every  piano-tuner  a  Helmlioltz,  every  Old  Bailey 
barrister  a   Solon,  every   Seven   Dials   pigeon   dealer   a 


Preface  on  Doctors  xxv 

Darwin,  every  scrivener  a  Shakespear,  every  locomotive 
engine  a  miracle^,  and  its  driver  no  less  wonderful  than 
George  Stephenson.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  rank 
and  file  of  doctors  are  no  more  scientific  than  their 
tulors;  or,  if  you  prefer  to  put  it  the  reverse  way,  their 
tailors  are  no  less  scientific  than  they.  Doctoring  is  an 
art,  not  a  science:  any  layman  who  is  interested  in 
science  sufficiently  to  take  in  one  of  the  scientific  jour- 
nals and  follow  the  literature  of  the  scientific  movement, 
knows  more  about  it  than  those  doctors  (probably  a  large 
majority)  who  are  not  interested  in  it,  and  practise  only 
to  earn  their  bread.  Doctoring  is  not  even  the  art  of 
keeping  people  in  health  (no  doctor  seems  able  to  advise 
you  what  to  eat  any  better  than  his  grandmother  or  the 
nearest  quack):  it  is  the  art  of  curing  illnesses.  It  does 
happen  exceptionally  that  a  practising  doctor  makes  a 
contribution  to  science  (my  play  describes  a  very  notable 
one)  ;  but  it  happens  much  oftener  that  he  draws  disas- 
trous conclusions  from  his  clinical  experience  because  he 
has  no  conception  of  scientific  method,  and  believes, 
like  any  rustic,  that  the  handling  of  evidence  and  statis- 
tics needs  no  expertness.  The  distinction  between  a 
quack  doctor  and  a  qualified  one  is  mainly  that  only  the 
qualified  one  is  authorized  to  sign  death  certificates,  for 
which  both  sorts  seem  to  have  about  equal  occasion. 
Unqualified  practitioners  now  make  large  incomes  .".s 
hygienists,  and  are  resorted  to  as  frequently  by  culti- 
vated amateur  scientists  who  imderstand  quite  well  what 
they  are  doing  as  by  ignorant  people  who  are  simph'^ 
dupes.  Bone-setters  make  fortunes  under  the  very  noses 
of  our  greatest  surgeons  from  educated  and  wealthy  pa- 
tients ;  and  some  of  the  most  successful  doctors  on  the 
register  use  quite  heretical  methods  of  treating  disease, 
and  have  qualified  themselves  solely  for  convenience. 
Leaving  out  of  account  the  village  witches  who  prescribe 
spells  and  sell  charms,  the  humblest  professional  healers 


xxvi  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

in  this  country  arc  the  licrbalists.  These  men  wander 
through  the  fields  on  Sunday  seeking  for  herbs  with 
magic  properties  of  curing  disease,  preventing  child- 
birth, and  the  like.  Each  of  them  believes  that  he  is  on 
the  verge  of  a  great  discovery,  in  which  Virginia  Snake 
Root  will  be  an  ingredient,  heaven  knows  why !  Vir- 
ginia Snake  Root  fascinates  the  imagination  of  the  herba- 
list as  mercury  used  to  fascinate  the  alchemists.  On 
week  days  he  keeps  a  shop  in  which  he  sells  jiackcts  of 
pennyroyal,  dandelion,  ivc,  labelled  with  little  lists  of 
the  diseases  they  are  sujjposed  to  cure,  and  apparently 
do  cure  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  people  who  keep  on 
buying  them.  I  have  never  been  able  to  perceive  any 
distinction  between  the  science  of  the  herbalist  and  that 
of  the  duly  registered  doctor.  A  relative  of  mine  re- 
cently consulted  a  doctor  about  some  of  tlie  ordinary 
symptoms  which  indicate  the  need  for  a  holiday  and  a 
change.  The  doctor  satisfied  himself  that  the  patient's 
heart  was  a  little  depressed.  Digitalis  being  a  drug  la- 
belled as  a  heart  specific  by  the  profession,  he  promptly 
administered  a  stiff  dose.  Fortunately  the  patient  was 
a  hardy  old  lady  who  was  not  easily  killed.  She  recov- 
ered with  no  worse  result  than  her  conversion  to  Chris- 
tian Science,  which  owes  its  vogue  quite  as  much  to 
jiuhlic  despair  of  doctors  as  to  superstition.  I  am  not, 
observe,  here  concerned  with  the  question  as  to  whether 
the  dose  of  digitalis  was  judicious  or  not;  the  point  is, 
that  a  farm  laborer  consulting  a  herbalist  would  have 
been  treated  in  exactly  the  same  way. 

Bacteriology  as  a  Superstition 

The  smattering  of  science  that  all — even  doctors — 
pick  up  from  the  ordinary  newspapers  nowadays  only 
makes  the  doctor  more  dangerous  than  he  used  to  be. 
Wise  men  used  to  take  care  to  consult  doctors  qualified 


Preface  on  Doctors  xxvii 

before  I860,  who  were  usually  contemptuous  of  or  indif- 
ferent to  the  germ  theory  and  bacteriological  theraptu- 
tics ;  but  now  that  these  veterans  have  mostly  retired  or 
died,  we  are  left  in  the  hands  of  the  generations  which, 
having  heard  of  microbes  much  as  St.  Thomas  Aquinas 
heard  of  angels,  suddenly  concluded  that  the  whole  art 
of  healing  could  be  summed  up  in  the  formula:  Find  the 
microbe  and  kill  it.  And  even  that  they  did  not  kiu>w 
how  to  do.  Tlie  simplest  way  to  kill  most  microbes  is 
to  throw  them  into  an  open  street  or  river  and  let  the 
sun  shine  on  them,  which  explains  the  fact  that  when 
great  cities  have  recklessly  thrown  all  their  sewage  into 
the  open  river  the  water  has  sometimes  been  cleaner 
twenty  miles  below  the  city  than  thirty  miles  above  it. 
But  doctors  instinctively  avoid  all  facts  that  arc  reas- 
suring, aiul  eagerly  swallow  those  that  make  it  a  marvel 
that  anyone  could  possibly  survive  three  days  in  an 
atmosphere  consisting  mainly  of  countless  pathogenic 
germs.  They  conceive  microbes  as  immortal  until  slain 
by  a  germicide  administered  by  a  duly  qualified  medical 
man.  All  through  Europe  jieople  are  adjured,  by  )>ublic 
notices  and  even  under  legal  jienalties,  not  to  throw  tlieir 
microbes  into  the  sunsliine.  but  to  collect  them  carefully 
in  a  handkerchief;  shield  the  handkerchief  from  the  sun 
in  the  darkness  and  warmth  of  the  pocket;  and  send  it 
to  a  laundry  to  be  mixed  up  with  everybody  eles's  hand- 
kerchiefs, with  results  only  too  familiar  to  local  health 
authorities. 

In  the  first  frenzy  of  microbe  killing,  surgical  instru- 
ments were  dipped  in  carbolic  oil,  which  was  a  great 
improvement  on  not  dipping  them  in  anything  at  all  and 
simply  using  them  dirty;  but  as  microbes  are  so  fond 
of  carbolic  oil  that  they  swarm  in  it,  it  was  not  a  suc- 
cess from  the  anti-microbe  point  of  view.  Formalin  was 
squirted  into  the  circulation  of  consumptives  until  it  was 
discovered  that  formalin  nourishes  the  tubercle  bacillus 


xxviii  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

handsomely  nnd  kills  men.  The  popular  theory  of 
disease  is  the  common  medical  theory:  namely,  that  every 
disease  had  its  microbe  duly  created  in  the  garden  of 
Eden,  and  has  been  steadily  propagating  itself  and  pro- 
ducing widening  circles  of  malignant  disease  ever  since. 
It  was  plain  from  the  first  that  if  this  had  been  even 
approximately  true,  the  whole  human  race  would  have 
been  wiped  out  by  the  plague  long  ago,  and  that  every 
epidemic,  instead  of  fading  out  as  mysteriously  as  it 
rushed  in,  would  spread  over  the  whole  world.  It  was 
also  evident  that  the  characteristic  microbe  of  a  disease 
might  be  a  sj'mptom  instead  of  a  cause.  An  unpunctual 
man  is  always  in  a  hurry ;  but  it  does  not  follow  that 
hurry  is  the  cause  of  unpunctuality :  oil  the  contrary, 
what  is  the  matter  with  the  j)atient  is  sloth.  \N'hen  Flor- 
ence Nightiiig.ile  said  1  !untly  that  if  you  overcrowded 
your  soldiers  in  dirty  <  arters  there  would  be  an  out- 
break of  smallpox  anion  ;  tluin,  she  was  snubbed  as  an 
ignorant  female  who  did  not  know  that  smallpox  can  be 
produced  only  by  the  importation  of  its  specific  microbe. 
If  this  was  the  line  taken  about  smallpox,  the  microbe 
of  which  has  never  yet  been  run  down  and  i'X])osed  imder 
the  microscope  by  the  bacteriologist,  what  must  have 
been  the  ardor  of  conviction  as  to  tuberculosis,  tetanus, 
enteric  fever,  Maltese  fever,  diphtheria,  and  the  rest  of 
the  diseases  in  which  the  characteristic  bacillus  had  been 
identified  !  When  there  was  no  bacillus  it  was  assumed 
that,  since  no  disease  could  exist  without  a  bacillus,  it 
was  simply  eluding  observation.  When  the  bacillus  was 
found,  as  it  frequently  was,  in  persons  who  were  not 
suffering  from  the  disease,  the  theory  was  saved  by 
simply  calling  the  bacillus  an  impostor,  or  pseudo- 
bacillus.  The  same  boundless  credulity  which  the  public 
exhibit  as  to  a  doctor's  power  of  diagnosis  was  shown  by 
the  doctors  themselves  as  to  the  analytic  microbe  hunt- 
ers.    These  witch  finders  would  give  you  a  certificate  of 


Preface  on  Doctors  xxix 

the  ultimate  constitution  of  anything  from  a  sample  of 
the  water  from  your  well  to  a  scrap  of  your  lungs,  for 
seven-aiul-sixpcnse.  I  do  not  suggest  that  the  analysts 
were  dishonest.  No  douht  they  carried  the  analysis  as 
far  as  they  could  afford  to  carry  it  for  the  money.  No 
doult  also  they  could  afford  to  carry  it  far  enough  to  be 
of  some  use.  Biit  the  fact  remains  that  just  as  doctors 
perform  for  half-a-crown,  without  the  least  misgiving, 
ojH-rations  which  could  not  he  thoroughly  and  safely 
performed  with  due  scientific  rigor  and  the  recpiisite  ap- 
paratus by  an  unaided  |)rivate  practitioner  for  less  than 
some  thousands  of  pounds,  so  did  they  j)roceed  on  the 
assumption  that  they  ecnild  get  the  last  word  of  science 
as  tt)  the  constituents  of  their  pathological  samples  for  a 
two  hours  cab  fare. 

Economic  Ditliculties  of  Immunization 

I  have  heard  doctors  affirm  and  deny  almost  every 
possible  proposition  as  to  disease  and  treatment.  I  can 
remember  the  time  when  doctors  no  more  dreamt  of  con- 
sumption and  pneumonia  being  infectious  than  they  now 
dream  of  sea-sickness  being  infectious,  or  than  so  great  a 
clinical  observer  as  Sydenham  dreamt  of  smallpox  being 
infectious.  I  have  heard  doctors  deny  that  there  is  such 
a  tiling  as  infection.  I  have  heard  them  deny  the  ex- 
istence of  hydrojihobia  as  a  specific  disease  differing 
from  tetanus.  I  have  heard  them  defend  prophylactic 
measures  and  prophylactic  legislation  as  the  sole  and 
certain  salvation  of  mankind  from  zymotic  disease;  and 
I  have  heard  them  denounce  both  as  malignant  spreaders 
of  cancer  and  lunacy.  But  the  one  objection  I  have 
never  heard  from  a  doctor  is  the  objection  that  prophy- 
laxis by  the  inoculatory  methods  most  in  vogue  is  an  eco- 
nomic impossibility  under  our  private  practice  system. 
They  buy  some  stuff  from  somebody  for  a  shilling,  and 


XXX  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

inject  a  pennyworth  of  it  under  their  jiatient's  skin  for 
half-a-crown,  conehidiiij;  that,  since  this  jiriniitive  rite 
pays  the  somehody  and  ])ays  them,  the  probh^n  of 
propliylaxis  has  been  satisfactorily  solved.  The  results 
are  sometimes  no  worse  than  tlie  ordinary  results  of  dirt 
getting  into  cuts ;  hut  neither  the  doctor  nor  the  patient 
is  quite  satisfied  unless  the  inoculation  "takes";  that  is, 
unless  it  jiroduces  perceptible  illness  and  disablement. 
Sometimes  both  doctor  and  j)atient  git  more  value  in  this 
direction  than  they  bargain  for.  The  results  of  ordi- 
nary private-praetice-inoculation  a*:  their  worst  arc  bad 
enough  to  be  indistinguishable  from  those  of  the  most 
discreditable  and  dreaded  disease  known ;  and  doctors, 
to  save  the  credit  of  the  inoculation,  have  been  driven 
to  accuse  their  ])atient  or  their  ]).iticnt's  ])arents  of  hav- 
ing contracted  this  disease  indejjendcntly  of  the  inocula- 
tion, an  excuse  which  natur.ally  does  not  make  tlie  family 
any  more  resigned,  and  leads  to  public  recriminations  in 
which  the  doctors,  forgetting  everything  but  the  imme- 
diate quarrel,  naively  excuse  themselves  by  admitting, 
and  even  claiming  as  a  point  in  their  favor,  that  it  is 
often  imjHissible  to  distinguish  tile  disease  produced  by 
their  inoculation  and  the  disease  they  have  accused  the 
patient  of  contracting.  And  both  jiarties  assume  that 
what  is  at  issue  is  the  scientific  soundness  of  the 
pro))hylaxis.  It  never  occurs  to  them  that  the  particular 
pathogenic  germ  which  they  intended  to  introduce  into 
the  patient's  system  may  be  quite  innocent  of  the  catas- 
trophe, and  that  the  casual  dirt  introduced  with  it  may 
be  at  fault.  When,  as  in  the  case  of  smallpox  or  cow- 
pox,  the  germ  has  not  yet  been  detected,  what  you  in- 
oculate is  siuii)ly  undefined  matter  that  has  been  scraped 
off  an  anything  but  chemically  clean  calf  suffering  from 
the  disease  in  question.  You  take  your  chance  of  the 
germ  being  in  the  scrapings,  and,  lest  you  should  kill 
it,  you  take  no  precautions  against  other  germs  being  in 


Preface  on  Doctors  xxxi 

it  as  well.  Anything  may  happen  as  tlic  result  of  such 
an  inoculation.  Vet  this  is  tlic  only  stuff  of  the  kind 
which  is  [)repared  and  sujij^lied  even  in  State  establish- 
ments: that  is,  in  the  only  establisliments  free  from  the 
commercial  temptation  to  adulterate  materials  and  scamp 
precautionary   processes. 

Even  if  the  germ  were  identified,  complete  precautions 
would  hardly  pay.  It  is  true  that  microbe  farming  is 
not  expensive.  The  cost  of  breeding  and  housing  two 
liead  of  cattle  would  jirovide  for  the  breeding  and  lious- 
ing  of  enough  microbes  to  inoculate  the  entire  ])opulation 
of  the  globe  since  human  life  first  appeared  on  it.  But 
the  precautions  necessary  to  insure  that  the  inoculation 
shall  consist  of  nothing  else  but  the  required  germ  in  the 
]iroper  state  of  attenuation  are  a  very  different  matter 
from  the  jireeautions  necessary  in  the  distribution  and 
consumjition  of  b(  efsteaks.  Ytt  peo])le  exjieet  to  find 
vaccines  and  antitoxins  and  the  like  retailed  at  "  popular 
prices  "  in  private  enter j)rise  shops  just  as  they  expect 
to  find  ounces  of  tobacco  and  papers  of  pins. 

The  Perils  of  Inoculation 

The  trouble  does  not  end  with  the  matter  to  be  in- 
oculated. There  is  the  question  of  the  condition  of  the 
patient.  The  discoveries  of  Sir  Almroth  Wright  have 
shewn  that  the  appalling  results  which  led  to  the  hasty 
dropping  in  1 89 4  of  Koch's  tuberculin  were  not  acci- 
dents, but  perfectly  orderly  and  inevitable  phenomena 
following  the  injection  of  dangerously  strong  "  vac- 
cines "  at  the  wrong  moment,  and  reinforcing  the  disease 
instead  of  stimulating  the  resistance  to  it.  To  ascertain 
the  right  moment  a  laboratory  and  a  staff  of  experts  are 
needed.  The  general  practitioner,  having  no  such  lab- 
oratory and  no  such  experience,  has  always  chanced  it, 
and  insisted,  when  he  was  unlucky,  that  the  results  were 


xxxii  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

not  due  to  the  inoculation,  but  to  some  other  c.iuse:  a 
favorite  and  not  very  tactful  one  ln-iiitr  the  drunkenness 
or  licentiousness  of  the  patient.  But  thouixh  a  few  doc- 
tors hare  now  learnt  the  danpt^r  of  inoeulatinjr  without 
any  reference  to  the  patient's  "  opsonic  index  "  at  the 
moment  of  inoculation,  and  tliough  those  other  doctors 
who  are  denouncing  the  danger  as  imaginary  and  op- 
sonin as  a  craze  or  a  fad,  obviously  do  so  because  it 
involves  an  operation  which  they  have  neither  the  means 
nor  the  knowK-dge  to  prrfortn,  there  is  still  no  grasp  of 
the  econoiiric  change  in  the  situation.  They  have  never 
b<'<n  warned  that  the  practicability  of  any  iiicthod  of  ex- 
tirj)ating  disease  depends  not  only  on  its  efticney,  but  on 
its  cost.  For  example,  just  at  present  the»world  has  run 
raving  niad  on  the  subject  of  radium,  which  has  excited 
our  credulity  precisely  as  the  ap|)aritions  at  Lourdcs  ex- 
cited the  crtdulity  of  Roman  Catholics.  Suppose  it  were 
ascertained  that  every  child  in  the  world  could  be  ren- 
dered absolutely  inunune  from  all  disease  during  its 
entire  life  by  taking  half  an  ounce  of  radium  to  every 
pint  of  its  milk.  The  world  would  bo  none  the  healthier, 
because  not  even  a  Crown  Prince — no,  not  even  the  son 
of  a  Chicago  Meat  King,  could  afford  the  treatment. 
Yet  it  is  doubtful  wlxtlier  doctors  would  refrain  from 
prescribing  it  on  that  ground.  The  recklessness  with 
which  they  now  recommend  wintering  in  Egypt  or  at 
Davos  to  people  who  cannot  afford  to  go  tt)  Cornwall, 
and  the  orders  given  for  champagne  jelly  and  old  port 
in  households  where  such  luxuries  must  obviously  be 
acquired  at  the  cost  of  stinting  necessaries,  often  make 
one  wonder  whether  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  go 
through  a  medical  training  and  retain  a  spark  of  common 
sense. 

This  sort  of  inconsiderateness  gets  cured  only  in  the 
classes  where  poverty,  pretentious  as  it  is  even  at  its 
worst,  cannot  pitch  its  pretences  high  enough  to  make  it 


Preface  on  Doctors  xxxiii 

possible  for  the  doctor  (himself  often  no  better  otf  than 
the  patient)  to  assume  that  the  average  income  of  an 
English  family  is  about  £•2,000  a  year,  and  that  it  is 
quite  easy  to  break  up  a  home,  sell  an  old  family  seat 
at  a  sacrifice,  and  retire  into  a  foreign  sanatorium  de- 
voted to  some  "  treatment  "  that  did  not  exist  two  years 
ago  and  probably  will  not  exist  (except  as  a  jiretext  for 
keeping  an  ordinary  liotel)  two  years  hence.  In  a  poor 
practice  the  doctor  must  find  cheap  treatments  for  cheap 
people,  or  humiliate  and  lose  his  patients  cither  by  )>re- 
seribing  beyond  tluir  means  or  sending  them  to  the 
jnibbe  hospitals.  ^^'hen  it  comes  to  ])rophy lactic  in- 
oeul.ition.  the  altcriiatix  e  lies  between  the  complete  scien- 
tific process,  which  can  only  be  brought  down  to  a 
reasonable  cost  by  being  very  highly  organized  as  a 
public  service  in  a  public  insstitution,  and  such  cheap, 
nasty,  dangerous  and  scientifically  spurious  imitations  as 
ordinary  vaccination,  which  stems  not  unlikely  to  be 
ended,  like  its  equally  vaunted  forerunner.  X\'ni.  cen- 
tury inoculation,  by  a  purely  reactionary  law  making  all 
sorts  of  vaccination,  scientific  or  not.  criminal  oflfences. 
Naturally,  the  poor  doctor  (that  is,  the  average  doctor) 
defends  ordinary  vaccination  frantically,  as  it  means  to 
him  the  bread  of  his  children.  To  secure  the  vehement 
and  practically  imanimous  suj)port  of  the  rank  and  file 
of  the  niedieal  ])rofession  for  any  sort  of  treatment  or 
oj)eration.  all  that  is  necessary  is  that  it  can  be  easily 
practised  by  a  rather  shabbily  dressed  man  in  a  surgi- 
cally dirty  room  in  a  surgically  dirty  house  without  any 
assistance,  and  that  the  materials  for  it  shall  cost,  say, 
a  penny,  and  the  charge  for  it  to  a  patient  "with  £100 
a  year  be  half-a-crown.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
hygienic  measure  has  only  to  be  one  of  such  refinement, 
ditfieulty,  precision  and  costliness  as  to  be  quite  beyond 
the  resources  of  private  practice,  to  be  ignored  or  angrily 
denounced  as  a  fad. 


xxxiv  The  Doctor's  Uilemma 

Trade  Unionism  and  Science 

Here  we  have  the  explanation  of  tlie  savage  rancor 
that  so  amazes  people  who  imagine  that  the  controversy 
concerning  vaccination  is  a  scientific  one.  It  has  really 
nothing  to  do  with  science.  The  medical  profession,  con- 
sisting for  the  most  part  of  very  poor  men  struggling 
to  keep  up  appearances  beyond  their  means,  find  them- 
selves threatened  with  the  extinction  of  a  considerable 
part  of  their  incomes:  a  ])art,  too.  that  is  easily  and 
regularly  earned,  since  it  is  independent  of  disease,  and 
brings  every  person  born  into  the  nation,  healthy  or  not, 
to  the  doctors.  To  boot,  there  is  the  occasional  windfall 
of  an  epidemic,  with  its  panic  and  rush  ,for  revaccina- 
tion.  Under  such  circumstances,  vaccination  would  be 
defended  despt  rately  were  it  twice  as  dirty,  dangerous, 
and  unscientitic  in  method  as  it  actually  is.  The  note 
of  fury  in  the  defence,  the  feeling  that  the  anti-vaccina- 
tor  is  doing  a  cruel,  ruinous,  inconsiderate  thing  in  a 
mood  of  malignant  folly:  all  this,  so  puzzling  to  the 
observer  who  knows  nothing  of  the  economic  side  of  the 
question,  and  only  sees  that  the  anti-vaccinator,  having 
nothing  whatever  to  gain  and  a  good  deal  to  lose  by 
placing  himself  in  opj)osition  to  the  law  and  to  the  out- 
cry that  adds  private  jjersecution  to  legal  penalties,  can 
have  no  interest  in  the  matter  except  the  interest  of  a 
reformer  in  abolishing  a  corrupt  and  mischievous  super- 
stition, becomes  intelligible  the  moment  the  tragedy  of 
medical  poverty  and  the  lucrativeness  of  cheap  vaccina- 
tion is  taken  into  account. 

In  the  face  of  such  economic  pressure  as  this,  it  is 
silly  to  expect  that  medical  teaching,  any  more  than 
medical  practice,  can  possibly  be  scientific.  The  test  to 
which  all  methods  of  treatment  are  finally  brought  is 
whether  they  are  lucrative  to  doctors  or  not.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  cite  any  proposition  less  obnoxious  to  science 


Preface  on  Doctors  xxxv 

than  that  advanced  hy  H.ihncniann :  to  wit,  that  drugs 
whicli  in  large  doses  ))roduce  certain  synij)tonis,  counter- 
act tlieni  in  very  small  doses,  just  as  in  more  modirn 
practice  it  is  found  that  a  sufficiently  small  inoculation 
with  typhoid  rallies  our  ))owers  to  resist  the  disease  in- 
stead of  prostrating  us  with  it.  But  Hahneniann  and 
his  followers  were  frantically  persecuted  for  a  century 
by  generations  of  aj)othecary-doctors  whose  incomes  de- 
pended on  the  quantity  of  drugs  they  could  induce  thtiir 
patients  to  swallow.  Tliesc-  two  cases  of  ordinary  vac- 
cination and  homeojiathy  are  tyjiical  of  all  the  rest.  ,Iust 
as  the  object  of  a  trade  union  under  existing  conditions 
must  finally  be,  not  to  improve  the  technical  quality  of 
the  work  done  by  its  members,  but  to  secure  a  living 
wage  for  them,  so  the  object  of  the  medical  profession 
today  is  to  secure  an  income  for  the  private  doctor;  and 
to  this  consideration  all  concern  for  science  and  jjublic 
Ijealth  must  give  way  when  the  two  come  into  conflict. 
Fortunately  they  are  not  always  in  conflict.  Up  to  a 
certain  point  doctors,  like  carpenters  and  masons,  must 
earn  their  living  by  doing  the  work  that  the  public  wants 
from  them;  and  as  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  things  pos- 
sible that  such  public  want  should  be  based  on  unmixed 
disutility,  it  may  be  admitted  tliat  doctors  have  their  uses, 
real  as  well  as  imaginary.  But  just  as  tlie  best  car- 
penter or  mason  will  resist  the  introduction  of  a  machine 
that  is  likely  to  throw  him  out  of  work,  or  the  public 
technical  education  of  unskilled  laborers'  sons  to  com- 
pete with  him,  so  the  doctor  will  resist  with  all  his 
powers  of  persecution  every  advance  of  science  that 
threatens  his  income.  And  as  the  advance  of  scientific 
hygiene  tends  to  make  the  private  doctor's  visits  rarer, 
and  the  public  inspector's  frequenter,  whilst  the  advance 
of  scientific  therapeutics  is  in  the  direction  of  treatments 
that  involve  highly  organized  laboratories,  hospitals,  and 
public  institutions  generally,  it  unluckily  happens  that 


XXX vi  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

the  organization  of  private  practitionrrs  which  we  call 
the  medical  })rofession  is  coniing  more  and  more  to  rep- 
resent, not  science,  but  desjjerate  and  embittered  anti- 
science:  a  statement  of  things  which  is  likely  to  get 
worse  until  the  average  doctor  either  depends  upon  or 
hopes  for  an  appointment  in  the  public  health  service 
for  his  livelihood. 

So  much  for  our  guarantees  as  to  medical  science. 
Let  us  now  deal  with  the  more  painful  subject  of  medical 
kindness. 

Doctors  and  Vivisection 

The  importance  to  our  doctors  of  a  reputation  for  the 
tenderest  humanity  is  so  obvious,  and  the  quantity  of 
benevolent  work  actually  done  by  them  for  nothing  (a 
great  deal  of  it  from  sheer  good  nature)  so  large,  that  at 
first  siglit  it  seems  unaeeountalile  that  they  should  not 
only  throw  all  their  credit  away,  but  deliberately  choose 
to  band  themselves  j)ublicly  with  outlaws  and  scoundrels 
by  claiming  that  in  the  pursuit  of  their  professional 
knowledge  they  should  be  free  from  the  restraints  of  law, 
of  honor,  of  i)ity,  of  remorse,  of  everything  that  distin- 
guishes an  orderly  citizen  from  a  South  Sea  buccaneer, 
or  a  j)hil()SO))h('r  from  an  inquisitor.  For  here  we  look  in 
vain  for  either  an  economic  or  a  sentimental  motive.  In 
every  generation  fools  and  blackguards  have  made  this 
claim ;  and  honest  and  reasonable  men,  led  by  the  strong- 
est contemporary  minds,  have  repudiated  it  and  exposed 
its  crude  rascality.  From  Shakcspear  and  Dr.  Johnson 
to  Ruskin  and  Mark  Twain,  the  natural  abhorrence  of 
sane  mankind  for  the  vivisector's  cruelty,  and  the  con- 
tempt of  able  thinkers  for  his  imbecile  casuistry,  have 
been  expressed  by  the  most  popular  spokesmen  of  hu- 
manity. If  the  medical  profession  were  to  outdo  the 
Anti-Vivisection  Societies  in  a  general  professional  pro- 


Preface  on  Doctors  xxxvii 

test  against  the  practice  and  ])rinciples  of  the  vivisectors, 
every  doctor  in  the  kingdom  would  gaui  substantially  by 
the  immense  relief  and  reconciliation  which  would  follow 
such  a  reassurance  of  the  humanity  of  the  doctor.  Not 
one  doctor  in  a  thousand  is  a  vivisector,  or  has  any  in- 
terest in  vivisection,  either  i>eeuniary  or  intellectual,  or 
would  treat  his  dog  cruelly  or  alknv  anyone  else  to  do  it. 
It  is  true  that  the  doctor  complies  with  the  professional 
fasliion  of  defending  vivisection,  and  assuring  you  that 
j)eople  like  Shakespear  and  Dr.  Johnson  and  Uuskin  and 
Mark  Twain  are  ignorant  sentimentalists,  just  as  he  com- 
])lies  with  any  other  silly  fashion:  the  mystery  is,  how 
it  became  tlie  fashion  in  spite  of  its  being  so  injurious  to 
those  who  follow  it.  Making  all  possible  allowance  for 
the  effect  of  tlie  brazen  lying  of  the  few  men  who  bring  a 
rush  of  despairing  patients  to  their  doors  by  professing 
in  letters  to  the  newspaj)ers  to  have  learnt  from  vivisec- 
tion how  to  cure  certain  diseases,  and  the  assurances  of 
the  savers  of  smooth  things  that  the  practice  is  quite 
painless  under  the  law,  it  is  still  difficult  to  lind  any  civil- 
ized motive  for  an  attitude  by  which  the  medical  profes- 
sion has  everything  to  lose  and  nothing  to  gain. 

The  Primitive  Savage  Motive 

I  say  civilized  motive  advisedly ;  for  primitive  tribal 
motives  are  easy  enough  to  find.  Every  savage  chief  who 
is  not  a  Mahomet  learns  that  if  he  wishes  to  strike  the 
imagination  of  his  tribe — and  without  doing  that  he  can- 
not rule  them — he  must  terrify  or  revolt  them  from  time 
to  time  by  acts  of  hideous  cruelty  or  disgusting  unnatu- 
ralness.  We  are  far  from  being  as  superior  to  such  tribes 
as  we  imagine.  It  is  very  doubtful  indeed  whether  Peter 
the  Great  could  have  effected  the  changes  he  made  in 
Russia  if  he  had  not  fascinated  and  intimidated  his  peo- 
ple by  his  monstrous  cruelties  and  grotesque  escapades. 


xxxviii         The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

Had  he  been  a  nineteenth-century  king  of  England,  he 
would  have  had  to  wait  for  some  huge  accidental  calam- 
ity':  a  cholera  epidemic,  a  war,  or  an  insurrection,  before 
waking  us  up  sufficiently  to  get  anything  done.  \'ivisec- 
tion  helps  the  doctor  to  rule  us  as  Peter  ruled  the  Rus- 
sians. The  notion  that  the  man  who  docs  dreadful  things 
is  suj)erhuman,  and  that  therefore  he  can  also  do  wonder- 
ful things  either  as  ruler,  avenger,  healer,  or  what  not, 
is  by  no  means  conHned  to  barbarians.  Just  as  the  mani- 
fold wickednesses  and  stupidities  of  our  criminal  code 
arc  supported,  not  by  any  general  comprehension  of  law 
or  study  of  jurisprudence,  not  even  by  simple  vindictivc- 
ness,  but  by  the  superstition  that  a  calamity  of  any  sort 
must  be  cxj)iated  by  a  human  sacriricc;  s«  the  wicked- 
nesses and  stupidities  of  our  medicine  men  are  rooted  in 
superstitions  tliat  have  no  more  to  do  with  science  than 
the  traditional  ceremony  of  christening  an  ironclad  has 
to  do  with  the  effectiveness  of  its  armament.  We  have 
only  to  turn  to  Macaulay's  description  of  the  treatment 
of  Charles  II.  in  his  last  illness  to  see  how  strongly  his 
physicians  felt  that  their  only  chance  of  cheating  death 
was  by  outraging  nature  in  tormenting  and  disgusting 
their  unfortunate  patient.  True,  this  was  more  than  two 
centuries  ago;  but  I  have  heard  my  own  nineteenth-cen- 
tury grandfather  describe  the  cupping  and  firing  and 
nauseous  medicines  of  his  time  with  perfect  credulity  as 
to  their  beneficial  effects ;  and  some  more  modern  treat- 
ments apjiear  to  me  quite  as  barbarous.  It  is  in  this  way 
that  vivisection  jiays  the  doctor.  It  apjieals  to  the  fear 
and  credulity  of  the  savage  in  us;  and  without  fear  and 
credulity  half  the  private  doctor's  occupation  and  seven- 
eighths  of  his  influence  would  be  gone. 


Preface  on  Doctors  xxxix 

The  Higher  :\Iotive.     The  Tree  of 
Knowledge 

But  the  /greatest  force  of  all  on  the  side  of  vivisection 
is  the  niiiihty  and  indeed  divine  force  of  curiosity.  Here 
we  have  no  decayinf^  tribal  instinct  which  men  strive  to 
root  out  of  themselves  as  they  strive  to  root  out  the 
lifter's  lust  for  blood.  On  the  contrary,  the  curiosity  of 
the  ape,  or  of  tlie  child  who  ])ulls  out  the  lej^s  and  winj^s 
of  a  Hy  to  see  what  it  will  do  without  them,  or  who,  on 
being  tohl  that  a  cat  dropped  out  of  the  window  will 
always  fall  on  its  legs,  immediately  tries  the  experiment 
on  the  nearest  cat  from  the  highest  window  in  the  house 
(I  protest  I  did  it  myself  from  the  first  Hoor  only),  is  as 
nothing  compartd  to  the  tliirst  for  knowledge  of  the  phi- 
losopher, the  i)oet,  the  biologist,  and  the  naturalist.  I 
have  alw.iys  despised  Adam  because  he  had  to  be  tempted 
by  the  woman,  as  she  was  by  the  serpent,  before  he  could 
be  induced  to  pluck  the  apple  from  the  tree  of  knowl- 
edge. I  should  have  swallowed  every  apple  on  the  tree 
the  moment  the  owner's  back  was  turned.  When  Gray 
said  "  \\'here  ignorance  is  bliss,  'tis  folly  to  be  wise,"  he 
forgot  that  it  is  godlike  to  be  wise ;  and  since  nobody 
wants  bliss  particularly,  or  could  stand  more  than  a  very 
brief  taste  of  it  if  it  were  attainable,  and  since  everybody, 
by  the  deepest  law  of  the  Life  Force,  desires  to  be  god- 
like, it  is  stupid,  and  indeed  blasphemous  and  despairing, 
to  hope  that  the  thirst  for  knowledge  will  either  diminish 
or  consent  to  be  subordinated  to  any  other  end  whatso- 
ever. We  shall  see  later  on  that  the  claim  that  has  arisen 
in  this  way  for  the  imconditioned  pursuit  of  knowledge 
is  as  idle  as  all  dreams  of  unconditioned  activity;  but 
none  the  less  the  right  to  knowledge  must  be  regarded 
as  a  fundamental  human  right.  The  fact  that  men  of 
science  have  had  to  tight  so  hard  to  secure  its  recogni- 


xl  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

tion,  and  are  still  so  vigorously  persecuted  when  they  dis- 
cover anything  that  is  not  quite  palatable  to  vulgar  peo- 
ple, makes  them  sorely  jealous  for  that  right;  and  when 
they  hear  a  poj)ular  outcry  for  the  suppression  of  a 
method  of  research  wliieh  has  an  air  of  l)eing  scientific, 
their  first  instini-t  is  to  rally  to  the  defence  of  that 
method  without  further  consideration,  with  the  result  that 
they  sometimes,  as  in  the  case  of  vivisection,  presently 
find  themselves  fighting  on  a  false  issue. 

Tlie  Flaw  in  the  Aro-iimcnt 

I  may  as  well  j)ause  here  to  exj)lain  tluir  error.  The 
right  to  know  is  like  the  right  to  live.  It  i^  fundamental 
and  unconditional  in  its  assuin])tion  that  knowletige,  like 
life,  is  a  desirahle  thing,  though  any  fool  can  prove  that 
ignorance  is  bliss,  and  that  "  a  little  knowledge  is  a  dan- 
gerous thing  "  (a  little  being  the  most  that  any  of  us  can 
attain),  as  easily  as  that  the  pains  of  life  are  more  nu- 
merous and  constant  than  its  pleasures,  and  that  there- 
fore we  should  all  be  better  dead.  The  logic  is  unim- 
peachable; but  its  only  effect  is  to  make  us  say  that  if 
these  are  the  conclusions  logic  leads  to,  so  much  the  worse 
for  logic,  after  which  curt  dismissal  of  Folly,  vre  continue 
living  and  learning  by  instinct:  that  is,  as  of  right.  We 
legislate  on  the  assumption  that  no  man  may  be  killed  on 
the  strength  of  a  demonstration  that  he  would  be  hap- 
pier in  his  grave,  not  even  if  he  is  dying  slowly  of  cancer 
and  begs  the  doctor  to  despatch  him  quickly  and  merci- 
fully. To  get  killed  lawfully  he  must  violate  somebody 
else's  right  to  live  by  committing  murder.  But  he  is  by 
no  means  free  to  live  unconditionally.  In  society  he  can 
exercise  his  right  to  live  only  under  very  stiff  conditions. 
In  countries  where  there  is  compulsory  military  service 
he  may  even  have  to  throw  away  his  individual  life  to 
save  the  life  of  the  community. 


Preface  on  Doctors  xli 

It  is  just  so  in  the  case  of  tlic  riglit  to  knowledge.  It 
is  a  riglit  that  is  as  yet  very  imperfeetly  recognized  in 
practice.  But  in  theory  it  is  admitted  that  an  adult 
person  in  pursuit  of  knowledge  must  not  he  refused 
it  on  the  ground  that  lie  would  be  better  or  hajipier  with- 
out it.  Parents  and  j)ri»'sts  may  forbid  knowledge  to 
those  who  aeecpt  their  autliority ;  and  social  taboo  may 
be  made  effective  by  acts  of  legal  persecution  under  cover 
of  repressing  blasi)hemy,  ol)scenity,  and  sedition;  but  no 
government  now  openly  forbids  its  subjects  to  pursue 
knowledge  on  the  ground  that  knowledge  is  in  itself  a  bad 
thing,  or  that  it  is  possible  for  any  of  us  to  have  too 
mucli  of  it. 

Limitations  of  the  Right  to  Knowledge 

But  neither  does  any  government  exempt  the  pursuit 
of  knowledge,  any  more  than  the  pursuit  of  life,  liberty, 
and  happiness  (as  the  American  Constitution  ])uts  it), 
from  all  social  conditions.  No  man  is  aHowed  to  put 
his  mothir  into  the  stove  because  he  desires  to  know  liow 
long  an  adult  woman  will  survive  at  a  temperature  of 
500°  Fahrenheit,  no  matter  how  important  or  interesting 
that  particular  addition  to  the  store  of  human  knowledge 
may  be.  A  man  who  did  so  would  have  short  work  made 
not  only  of  his  right  to  knowledge,  but  of  his  right  to 
live  and  all  his  other  rights  at  the  same  time.  The  right 
to  knowledge  is  not  the  only  right ;  and  its  exercise  must 
be  limited  by  respect  for  other  rights,  and  for  its  o^vn 
exercise  by  others.  When  a  man  says  to  Society,  "  May 
I  torture  my  mother  in  pursuit  of  knowledge?  "  Society 
replies,  "No."  If  he  pleads,  "What!  Not  even  if  I 
liave  a  chance  of  finding  out  how  to  cure  cancer  by  doing 
it?  "  Society  still  says,  "  Not  even  then."  If  the  scien- 
tist, making  the  best  of  his  disappointment,  goes  on  to 
ask  may  he  torture  a  dog,  the  stupid  and  callous  people 


xlii  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

who  do  not  realize  tlmt  a  donj  is  <a  fellow-erenture  and 
sometimes  a  good  friend,  may  say  Yes,  though  Shake- 
spear,  Dr.  Jolmson  and  their  like  may  say  No.  But  even 
those  who  say  "  You  may  torture  a  dog "  never  say 
"  You  may  torture  mi/  dog."  And  nobody  says,  "  Y'es, 
because  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  you  may  do  as  you 
please."  Just  as  even  the  stupidesc  jxople  say,  in  effeet, 
"If  you  cannot  attain  to  knowledge  without  burning 
your  mother  you  must  do  without  knowledge,"  so  the 
wisest  people  say, J'  If  you  cannot  attain  to  knowledge 
without  torturing  a  dog,  you  must  do  without  knowl- 
edge." 

A  False  Alternative 

But  in  practice  you  cannot  persuade  any  wise  man  tint 
this  alternative  can  ever  be  forced  on  anyone  but  a  fool, 
or  that  a  fool  can  be  trusted  to  learn  anything  from  any 
experiment,  cruel  or  humane.  The  Chinaman  who  burnt 
down  his  house  to  roast  his  pig  was  no  doubt  honestly 
unable  to  conceive  any  less  disastrous  way  of  cooking  his 
dinner;  and  the  roast  must  have  been  spoiled  after  all  (a 
perfect  type  of  the  average  vivisectionist  ex|)erinu-nt)  ; 
but  this  did  not  prove  that  the  Chinaman  was  right :  it 
only  proved  that  the  Chinaman  was  an  incapable  cook 
and,  fundamentally,  a  fool. 

Take  another  celebrated  experiment:  one  in  sanitary 
reform.  In  the  days  of  Nero  Rome  was  in  the  same  pre- 
dicament as  London  to-day.  If  some  one  would  burn 
down  London,  and  it  were  rebuilt,  as  it  would  now  have 
to  be,  subject  to  the  sanitary  by-laws  and  Building  Act 
provisions  enforced  by  the  London  County  Council,  it 
would  be  enormously  improved ;  and  the  average  lifetime 
of  Londoners  would  be  considerably  prolonged.  Nero 
argued  in  the  same  way  about  Rome.  He  employed  in- 
cendiaries to  set  it  on  fire;   and  he   played  the  harp   in 


Preface  on  Doctors  xliii 

scientific  raptures  whilst  it  was  burninj?.  I  am  so  far  of 
Nero's  way  of  thinking  that  I  have  often  said,  wlien  con- 
sulted by  despairing  sanitary  reformers,  that  what  Lon- 
don needs  to  make  her  healthy  is  an  eartlujuake.  ^^^1V, 
then,  it  may  be  asked,  do  not  I,  as  a  public-spirited  man, 
employ  incendiaries  to  set  it  on  fire,  with  a  heroic  disre- 
gard of  the  const  quences  to  myself  and  others?  Any 
viviseetor  would,  if  he  had  the  courage  of  his  opinions. 
The  reasonable  answer  is  that  London  can  be  made 
healthy  without  burning  her  down;  and  that  as  we  have 
not  enough  civic  virtue  to  make  her  healthy  in  a  humane 
and  economical  way,  we  should  not  have  enough  to  re- 
build her  in  that  way.  In  the  old  Hebrew  legend,  God 
lost  ])atienee  with  the  world  as  Nero  did  with  Home,  and 
drowned  cv«ryboily  except  a  single  family.  Ihit  the  re- 
sult was  that  the  progeny  of  that  family  reproduced  all 
the  vices  of  their  predecessors  so  exiu'tly  that  the  misery 
caused  by  the  flood  might  just  as  well  have  been  spared: 
things  went  on  just  as  they  did  before.  In  the  same 
way,  the  lists  of  diseases  which  vivisection  claims  to  have 
cured  is  long;  but  the  returns  of  the  Registrar-General 
shew  that  peopli-  still  persist  in  dying  of  them  as  if  vivi- 
section had  never  been  heard  of.  Any  fool  can  burn 
down  a  ciy  or  cut  an  animal  open ;  and  an  exceptionally 
foolish  fool  is  quite  likely  to  promise  enormous  benefits 
to  the  race  as  the  result  of  such  activities.  But  when  the 
constructive,  benevolent  part  of  the  business  comes  to  be 
done,  the  same  want  of  imagination,  the  same  stupidity 
and  cruelty,  the  same  laziness  and  want  of  perseverance 
that  prevented  Nero  or  the  \-iviseetor  from  devising  or 
l)ushing  through  humane  methods,  prevents  him  from 
bringing  order  out  of  the  chaos  and  happiness  out  of  the 
misery  he  has  made.  At  one  time  it  seemed  reasonable 
enough  to  declare  that  it  was  impossible  to  find  whether 
or  not  there  was  a  stone  inside  a  man's  body  except  by 
exploring  it  with  a  knife,  or  to  find  out  what  the  sun  is 


xliv  The  Doctor's  Dileninia 

made  of  without  visiting  it  in  a  balloon.  Both  these  im- 
possibilitits  have  been  achieved,  but  not  by  viviseetors. 
The  Rbntgen  rays  need  not  hurt  the  patient;  and  spec- 
trum analysis  involves  no  destruction.  After  such  tri- 
umphs of  humane  experiment  and  reasoning,  it  is  useless 
to  assure  us  that  there  is  no  other  key  to  knowledge  ex- 
cept cruelty.  When  the  vivisector  offers  us  that  assur- 
ance, we  reply  simply  and  contemptuously,  "  You  mean 
that  you  are  not  clever  or  humane  or  energetic  enough 
to  find  one." 

Cruelty  for  its  own   Sake 

It  will  now.  I  hope,  be  ch^ar  wliy  tlir  attack  on  vivi- 
section is  not  an  attack  on  the  right  to  kjiowlcdge :  why, 
indeed,  tliose  who  have  the  deepest  conviction  of  the 
sacredness  of  that  right  are  the  leaders  of  the  attack.  \o 
knowledge  is  finally  imj)ossible  of  human  attainment;  for 
even  though  it  may  be  beyond  our  present  capacity,  the 
needed  capacity  is  not  unattainable.  Consequently  no 
method  of  investigation  is  the  only  method;  and  no  law 
forbidding  any  particular  method  can  cut  us  off  from  the 
kni»wl(.dge  we  hope  to  gain  by  it.  The  only  knowledge 
we  lose  by  forbidding  cruelty  is  knowledge  at  first  hand 
of  cruelty  itself,  which  is  precisely  the  knowledge  hu- 
mane people  wish  to  be  spared. 

But  the  question  remains:  Do  we  all  really  wish  to  be 
spared  that  knowledge?  Are  humane  methods  really  to 
be  preferred  to  cruel  ones?  Even  if  the  experiments 
come  to  nothing,  may  not  their  cruelty  be  enjoyed  for  its 
own  sake,  as  a  sensational  luxury?  Let  us  face  these 
questions  boldly,  not  shrinking  from  the  fact  that  cruelty 
is  one  of  the  primitive  pleasures  of  mankind,  and  that  the 
detection  of  its  Protean  disguises  as  law.  education,  medi- 
cine, discipline,  sport  and  so  forth,  is  one  of  the  most 
difficult  of  the  imending  tasks  of  the  legislator. 


Preface  on  Doctors  xlv 

Our  Own  Cruelties 

At  first  blush  it  may  seem  not  only  unnecessary,  but 
rvcn  indecent,  to  discuss  such  a  proposition  as  the  ele- 
vation of  cruelty  to  the  r.mk  of  a  human  right.  Unncc- 
rssary,  because  no  vivisector  confesses  to  a  love  of  cru- 
elty for  its  own  sake  or  claims  any  general  fundamental 
right  to  be  cruel.  Indecent,  because  there  is  an  accepted 
convention  to  repudiate  cruelty ;  and  vivisection  is  only 
tolerated  by  the  law  on  condition  that,  like  judicial  tor- 
ture, it  siiall  Ik-  done  as  mercifully  as  the  nature  of  the 
practice  allows.  But  the  moment  the  controversy  be- 
comes embittered,  the  recriminations  bandied  between  the 
opjjosed  jKirties  bring  us  face-to-faee  with  some  very 
ugly  truths.  On  one  occasion  I  was  invited  to  speak  at 
.1  large  Anti-V^ivisection  meeting  in  the  Queen's  Hall  in 
London.  I  found  myself  on  the  })latform  with  fox  hun- 
ters, tame  stag  hunters,  men  and  women  whose  calendar 
was  divided,  not  by  pay  days  and  quarter  days,  but  by 
seasons  for  killing  animals  for  sport:  the  fox,  the  hare, 
the  otter,  the  partridge'  and  the  rest  having  each  its  ap- 
pointed date  for  slaughter.  The  ladies  among  us  wore 
hats  and  cloaks  and  head-dresses  obtained  by  wholesale 
massacres,  ruthless  trappings,  callous  extermination  of 
our  fellow  creatures.  We  insisted  on  our  butchers  sup- 
plying us  with  white  veal,  and  were  large  and  constant 
consumers  of  pdtc  tie  foie  gras;  both  comestibles  being 
obtained  by  revolting  methods.  We  sent  our  sons  to  pub- 
lic schools  where  indecent  flogging  is  a  recognized 
method  of  taming  the  young  human  animal.  Yet  we  were 
all  in  hysterics  of  indignation  at  the  cruelties  of  the  vivi- 
sectors.  These,  if  any  were  present,  must  have  smiled 
sardonically  at  such  inhuman  humanitarians,  whose  daily 
habits  and  fashionable  amusements  cause  more  suffering 
in  England  in  a  week  than  all  the  vivisectors  of  Europe 
do  in  a  year.     I  made  a  very  effective  speech,  not  exclu- 


xlvi  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

sively  against  vivisection,  but  against  cruelty;  and  I  have 
never  been  asked  to  speak  since  by  that  Society,  nor  do 
I  expect  to  be,  as  I  should  prol)ably  give  such  otlence  to 
its  most  affluent  subscribers  that  its  attempts  to  suppress 
vivisection  would  be  seriously  hindered.  But  that  does 
not  prevent  the  vivisectors  from  freely  using  the  "  youre 
another  "  retort,  and  using  it  witli  justice. 

Wc  must  therefore  give  ourselves  no  airs  of  superiority 
when  denouncing  the  cruelties  of  vivisection.  We  all  do 
just  as  horrible  things,  with  even  less  excuse.  But  in 
making  that  admission  we  are  also  making  short  work  of 
the  virtuous  airs  with  which  we  are  sometimes  referred 
to  the  humanity  of  the  medical  profession  as  a  guarantee 
that  vivisection  is  not  abused — much  as  if^  our  burglars 
should  assure  us  that  they  are  too  honest  to  abuse  the 
practice  of  burgling.  We  .arc,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  cruel 
nation;  and  our  habit  of  disguising  our  vices  by  giving 
polite  names  to  the  offences  we  are  determined  to  commit 
does  not,  unfortunately  for  my  own  comfort,  impose  on 
me.  Vivisectors  can  hardly  pretend  to  be  better  than 
the  classes  from  which  they  are  drawn,  or  those  above 
them;  and  if  these  classes  are  capable  of  sacrificing  ani- 
mals in  various  cruel  ways  under  cover  of  sport,  fashion, 
education,  discipline,  and  even,  when  the  cruel  sacrifices 
are  human  sacrifices,  of  political  economy,  it  is  idle  for 
the  vivisector  to  pretend  that  he  is  incapable  of  practis- 
ing cruelty  for  pleasure  or  profit  or  both  under  the  cloak 
of  science.  ^Ve  are  all  tarred  with  the  same  brush ;  and 
the  vivisectors  are  not  slow  to  remind  us  of  it,  and  to 
protest  vehemently  against  being  branded  as  exception- 
ally cruel  and  as  devisers  of  horrible  instruments  of  tor- 
ture by  people  whose  main  notion  of  enjoyment  is  cruel 
sport,  and  whose  requirements  in  the  way  of  villainously 
cruel  traps  occupy  pages  of  the  catalogue  of  the  Army 
and  Navy  Stores. 


Preface  on  Doctors  xlvii 

The  Scientific  Investigation  of  Cruelty 

There  is  in  man  a  specific  lust  for  cruelty  which  infects 
even  his  passion  of  pity  and  makes  it  sava*Te.  Simple 
disgust  at  cruelty  is  very  rare.  The  people  who  turn  sick 
and  faint  and  tliose  who  gloat  are  often  alike  in  the  pains 
tlu'v  take  to  witness  executions,  floggings,  operations  or 
any  other  exliibitions  of  sutVering,  especially  those  in- 
volving bloodshed,  blows,  and  laceration.  A  craze  for 
cruelty  can  be  developed  just  as  a  craze  for  drink  can; 
and  nobody  who  attempts  to  ignore  cruelty  as  a  possible 
factor  in  the  attraction  of  vivisection  and  even  of  anti- 
vivisection,  or  in  the  credulity  with  whicli  we  accept  its 
excuses,  can  be  regarded  as  a  scientific  investigator  of  it. 
Tliose  who  accuse  vivisectors  of  indulging  the  well- 
known  passion  of  cruelty  under  the  cloak  of  research  are 
therefore  putting  forward  a  strictly  scientific  jjsycho- 
logical  hypothesis,  which  is  also  simple,  human,  obvious, 
and  probable.  It  may  be  as  wounding  to  the  personal 
vanity  of  the  vivisector  as  Darwin's  Origin  of  Species 
was  to  the  people  who  could  not  bear  to  think  that  they 
were  cousins  to  the  monkeys  (remember  (ioldsmith's  an- 
ger when  he  was  told  that  he  could  not  move  his  upper 
jaw);  but  science  has  to  consider  only  the  truth  of  the 
hypothesis,  and  not  wliether  conceited  people  will  like 
it  or  not.  In  vain  do  the  sentimental  champions  of  vivi- 
section declare  themselves  the  most  humane  of  men,  in- 
flicting sufi'ering  only  to  relieve  it,  serui)ulous  in  the  use 
of  r.nesthetics,  and  void  of  all  passion  except  the  passion 
of  pity  for  a  disease-ridden  world.  The  really  scientific 
investigator  answers  that  the  question  cannot  be  settled 
by  hysterical  protestations,  and  that  if  the  vivisectionist 
rejects  deductive  reasoning,  he  had  better  clear  his  char- 
acter by  his  own  favorite  method  of  experiment. 


I 


xlviii  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

Suggested  I^ahoratory  Tests  of  the 
Vivisector's  Emotions 

Tnkr  the  hackneyed  case  of  the  Italian  who  tortured 
mice,  ostensibly  to  Hnd  out  about  the  elTects  of  pain 
rather  less  than  the  nearest  dentist  could  liave  told  him, 
and  who  boasted  of  the  ecstatic  sensations  (he  actually 
used  the  word  love)  with  which  he  carried  out  his  experi- 
ments. Or  the  gentleman  who  starved  sixty  dogs  to  death 
to  establish  the  fact  that  a  dog  deprived  of  food  gets 
progressively  lighter  and  weaker,  becoming  remarkably 
emaciated,  and  finally  dying:  an  undoubted  truth,  but  as- 
certainable without  laboratory  experiments  by  a  simjile 
enquiry  addressed  to  the  nearest  policem.'hi,  or,  failing 
him,  to  any  sane  person  in  Kurope.  The  Italian  is  diag- 
nosed as  a  cruel  voluptuary :  the  dog-starver  is  passed 
over  as  such  a  hopeless  fool  that  it  is  impossible  to  take 
any  interest  in  him.  Why  not  test  the  diagnosis  scien- 
titically.^  Why  not  j)»rform  a  careful  series  of  experi- 
ments on  persons  under  the  influence  of  voluptuous 
ecstasy,  .so  as  to  ascertain  its  physiological  symptoms.'' 
Then  perform  a  second  series  on  persons  engaged  in 
mathematical  work  or  machine  designing,  so  as  to  ascer- 
tain the  symptoms  of  cold  scientific  activity?  Then  note 
the  symptoms  of  a  vivisector  performing  a  cruel  experi- 
ment; and  compare  them  with  the  voluptuary  symptoms 
and  the  mathematical  sym|)t()ms  r  Such  experiments 
v.ould  be  quite  as  interesting  and  important  as  any  yet 
undertaken  by  the  vivisectors.  They  might  open  a  line 
of  investigation  which  would  finally  make,  for  instance, 
the  ascertainment  of  the  guilt  or  innocence  of  an  accused 
person  a  much  exacter  process  than  the  very  fallible 
methods  of  our  criminal  courts.  But  instead  of  propos- 
ing such  an  investigation,  our  vivisectors  offer  us  all  the 
pious  protestations  and  all  the  hutify  recriminations  that 


Preface  on  Doctors  xlix 

any  commoti  unscientific  mortal  offers  when  he  is  accused 
of  unworthy  conduct. 


Routine 

Yet  most  vivisectors  would  probably  come  triumphant 
out  of  such  a  series  of  experiments,  because  vivisection 
is  now  a  routine,  like  butchering  or  hanging  or  flogging; 
and  many  of  the  men  who  practise  it  do  so  only  because 
it  lias  been  established  as  })art  of  the  profession  they  have 
adopted.  Far  from  enjoying  it,  they  have  simply  over- 
come their  natural  rei)ugnance  and  become  indifferent  to 
it,  as  men  inevitably  become  indifferent  to  anything  they 
do  often  enough.  It  is  this  dangerous  })ower  of  custom 
that  makes  it  so  diflicult  to  convince  the  conuuon  sense 
of  mankind  that  any  establislud  commercial  or  jirofes- 
sional  practice  has  its  root  in  i)assion.  Let  a  routine  once 
spring  from  ])assion,  and  you  will  presently  find  thou- 
sands of  routineers  following  it  passionlessly  for  a  liveli- 
hood. Thus  it  always  seems  strained  to  speak  of  the  re- 
ligious convictions  of  a  clergyman,  because  nine  out  of 
ten  clergymen  have  no  religious  convictions:  they  are 
ordinary  officials  carrying  on  a  routine  of  baptizing, 
marrying,  and  churching;  jiraying,  reciting,  and  preach- 
ing; and,  like  solicitors  or  doctors,  getting  away  from 
their  duties  with  relief  to  hunt,  to  garden,  to  keep  bees, 
to  go  into  society,  and  the  like.  In  the  same  way  many 
people  do  cruel  and  vile  things  without  being  in  the  least 
cruel  or  vile,  because  the  routine  to  which  they  have  been 
brought  up  is  superstitiously  cruel  and  vile.  To  say  that 
every  man  who  beats  his  children  and  every  schoolmaster 
who  flogs  a  pupil  is  a  conscious  debauchee  is  absurd: 
thousands  of  dull,  conscientious  people  beat  their  chil- 
dren conscientiously,  because  they  were  beaten  themselves 
and  think  children  ought  to  be  beaten.  The  ill-tempered 
vulgarity  that  instinctively  strikes  at  and  hurts  a  thing 


1  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

that  annoA's  it  (and  all  cliildrcn  are  annoying),  and  the 
sinij)le  stupidity  that  rcfjuirt's  from  a  child  ))(.'rtVction  be- 
yond the  reach  of  the  wisest  and  best  adults  (perfect 
trutlifulness  coupled  with  perfect  obedience  is  quite  a 
common  condition  of  leaving  a  child  unwhipi)ed),  jiro- 
duce  a  good  deal  of  flagellation  among  people  who  not 
only  do  not  lust  after  it,  but  who  hit  the  harder  because 
they  are  angry  at  having  to  perform  an  uncomfortable 
duly.  These  people  will  beat  merely  to  assert  their  au- 
thority, or  to  carry  out  what  they  conceive  to  be  a  divine 
order  on  the  strength  of  the  precept  of  Solomon  recorded 
in  the  Bible,  which  carefully  adds  that  Solomon  com- 
pletely spoilt  liis  own  son  and  turned  away  from  the  god 
of  his  fathers  to  the  sensuous  idolatry  in  ^^hich  he  ended 
his  days. 

In  the  same  way  we  find  men  and  women  practising 
vivisection  as  senselessly  as  aliumane  butcher,  wlio  adores 
liis  fox  terrier,  will  cut  a  calf's  throat  and  hang  it  up  by 
its  lieels  to  bleed  slowly  to  death  because  it  is  the  custom 
to  cat  veal  and  insist  on  its  being  white;  or  as  a  German 
purveyor  nails  a  goose  to  a  board  and  stuffs  it  with  food 
because  fashionable  people  cat  pate  dc  foie  ^ras;  or  as 
the  crew  of  a  whaler  breaks  in  on  a  colony  of  seals  and 
clubs  them  to  diath  in  wholesale  massacre  because  ladies 
want  sealskin  jackets;  or  as  fanciers  blind  singing  birds 
with  hot  needles,  and  mutilate  the  ears  and  tails  of  dogs 
and  horses.  Let  cruelty  or  kindness  or  anything  else 
once  become  customary  and  it  will  be  practised  by  people 
to  whom  it  is  not  at  all  natural,  but  whose  rule  of  life  is 
sim])ly  to  do  only  what  everybody  else  does,  and  who 
would  lose  their  employment  and  starve  if  they  indulged 
in  auj'  pcculijirity.  A  respectable  man  will  lie  daily,  in 
speech  and  in  print,  about  the  qualities  of  the  article  he 
lives  by  selling,  because  it  is  customary  to  do  so.  He 
will  flog  his  boy  for  telling  a  lie,  because  it  is  customary 
to  do  so.     He  will  also  flog  him  for  not  telling  a  lie  if 


Preface  on  Doctors  li 

the  boy  tells  inconvenient  or  disrespectful  truths,  because 
it  is  customary  to  do  so.  He  will  give  the  same  boy  a 
present  on  his  birthday,  and  buy  him  a  spade  and  bucket 
at  the  seaside,  because  it  is  customary  to  do  so,  beino;  all 
the  time  neither  particularly  mendacious,  nor  particularly 
cruel,  nor  particularly  generous,  but  simply  incapable  of 
ethical  judgment  or  independent  action. 

Just  so  do  we  find  a  crowd  of  petty  vivisectionists  daily 
committing  atrocities  and  stupidities,  because  it  is  the 
custom  to  do  so.  \'iviseetion  is  customary  as  part  of  the 
routine  of  preparing  lectures  in  medical  schools.  For  in- 
stance, there  are  two  ways  of  making  the  action  of  the 
heart  visible  to  students.  One,  a  barbarous,  ignorant, 
and  thoughtless  M'ay,  is  to  stick  little  flags  into  a  rabbit's 
heart  and  let  the  students  see  the  flags  jumj).  The  other, 
an  elegant,  ingenious,  well-informed,  and  instructive 
way,  is  to  put  a  sj)hygmograph  on  the  student's  wrist  and 
let  him  sec  a  record  of  his  heart's  action  traced  by  a 
needle  on  a  slip  of  smoked  paper.  But  it  has  become  the 
custom  for  lecturers  to  teach  from  the  rabbit;  and  the 
lecturers  are  not  original  enough  to  get  out  of  their 
groove.  Then  there  are  the  demonstrations  which  are 
made  by  cutting  up  frogs  with  scissors.  The  most  hu- 
mane man,  however  rei)ugnant  the  operation  may  be  to 
him  at  first,  cannot  do  it  at  lecture  after  lecture  for 
months  without  finally — and  that  very  soon — feeling  no 
more  for  the  frog  than  if  he  were  cutting  up  pieces  of 
paper.  Sueli  clumsy  and  lazy  ways  of  teaching  are  based 
on  the  cheapness  of  frogs  and  rabbits.  If  machines  were 
as  cheap  as  frogs,  engineers  would  not  only  be  taught  the 
anatomy  of  machines  and  the  functions  of  their  parts: 
they  would  also  have  machines  misused  and  wrecked 
before  them  so  that  they  might  learn  as  much  as  possible 
by  using  their  eyes,  and  as  little  as  possible  by  using 
their  brains  and  imaginations.  Thus  we  have,  as  part  of 
the  routine  of  teaching,  a  routine   of  vivisection  which 


Hi  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

soon  produces  complete  indifference  to  it  on  the  part  even 
of  those  who  are  naturally  humane.  If  they  pass  on 
from  the  routine  of  lecture  preparation,  not  into  general 
})ractice,  but  into  research  work,  they  carry  this  acquired 
indifference  with  them  into  the  laboratory,  where  any 
atrocity  is  possible,  because  all  atrocities  satisfy  curiosity. 
The  routine  man  is  in  the  majority  in  his  j)rofession  al- 
ways: consequently  tiie  moment  his  practice  is  tracked 
down  to  its  source  iFi  human  jiassion  there  is  a  great  and 
quite  sincere  poohpoohing  from  himself,  from  the  mass 
of  the  profession,  ajid  from  the  mass  of  the  public,  which 
sees  that  the  average  doctor  is  mucli  too  commonplace 
and  decent  a  person  to  be  capable  of  passionate  wicked- 
ness of  any  kind.  • 

Here  then,  we  have  in  vivisection,  as  in  all  the  other 
tolerated  and  instituted  cruelties,  this  anti-climax:  that 
only  a  negligible  percentage  of  those  who  practise  and 
consequently  defend  it  get  any  satisfaction  out  of  it.  As 
in  Mr.  (ials worthy's  play  Justice  the  useless  and  detest- 
able torture  of  solitary  imprisonnunt  is  shewn  at  its  worst 
without  tlie  introduction  of  a  single  cruel  jxrson  into  the 
drama,  so  it  would  be  possible  to  represent  all  the  tor- 
ments of  vivisection  dramatically  without  introducing  a 
single  vivisector  who  had  not  felt  sick  at  his  first  experi- 
ence in  the  laboratory.  Not  that  this  can  exonerate  any 
vivisector  from  suspicion  of  enjoying  his  work  (or  her 
work:  a  good  deal  of  the  vivisection  in  medical  schools  is 
done  by  women).  In  every  autobiography  which  records 
a  real  experience  of  school  or  prison  life,  we  find  that  here 
and  there  among  the  routineers  there  is  to  be  found  the 
genuine  amateur,  the  orgiastic  flogging  schoolmaster  or 
the  nagging  warder,  who  has  sought  out  a  cruel  profession 
for  the  sake  of  its  cruelty.  But  it  is  the  genuine  routineer 
who  is  the  bulwark  of  the  practice,  because,  though  you 
can  excite  public  fury  against  a  Sade,  a  Bluebeard,  or  a 
Nero,   you   cannot   rouse   any   feeling  against   dull    Mr. 


Preface  on  Dcx'tors  liii 

Smitli  doinj;  his  duty:  that  is,  doing  th<-  usual  thin/x.  He 
is  so  obviously  no  better  and  no  worse  than  anyone  else 
that  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  that  the  things  he  does  are 
abominable.  If  you  would  see  public  dislike  surging  up 
Iji  a  moment  against  an  individual,  you  must  watch  one 
who  does  something  unusual,  no  matter  how  sensible  it 
may  be.  The  name  of  .Jonas  Ilanway  lives  as  that  of  a 
brave  man  because  he  was  the  first  who  dared  to  apj)ear 
in  the  streets  of  this  rainy  island  M'ith  an  umbrella. 

The  Old   Line  between   Man  and   Beast 

IJut  there  is  still  a  distinction  to  be  clung  to  by  those 
who  dare  not  tell  themselves  the  truth  about  the  medical 
profession  because  they  are  so  helplessly  dependent  on 
it  when  dcatli  threatens  the  household.  That  distinction 
is  the  line  that  separates  the  brute  from  the  man  in  the 
old  classification.  Granted,  they  will  plead,  that  we  are 
all  cruel;  yet  the  tame-stag-hunter  does  not  hunt  men; 
and  the  sportsman  who  lets  a  leash  of  greyhounds  loose 
on  a  hare  would  be  horrified  at  the  thought  of  letting 
them  loose  on  a  human  child.  The  lady  who  gets  her 
cloak  by  flaying  a  sable  docs  not  flay  a  negro;  nor  does 
it  ever  occur  to  her  that  her  veal  cutlet  might  be  im- 
proved on  by  a  slice  of  tender  baby. 

Now  there  was  a  time  when  some  trust  could  be  placed 
in  this  distinction.  The  Roman  Catholic  Churcli  still 
maintains,  with  wl;at  it  must  jiermit  me  to  call  a  stuj)id 
obstinacy,  and  in  spite  of  St.  Francis  and  St.  Anthony, 
that  animals  have  no  souls  and  no  rights ;  so  that  you 
cannot  sin  against  an  animal,  or  against  God  by  any- 
thing you  may  choose  to  do  to  an  animal.  Resisting  the 
temjjtation  to  enter  on  an  argument  as  to  whether  you 
may  not  sin  against  your  own  soul  if  you  are  unjust  or 
cruel  to  the  least  of  those  whom  St.  Francis  called  his 
little  brothers,  I  have  only  to  point  out  here  that  noth- 


liv  Tlie  Doctor's  Dilemma 

ing  could  be  more  despicably  superstitious  in  the  opinion 
of  a  vivisector  than  the  notion  that  science  recognizes 
any  such  step  in  evolution  as  the  step  from  a  physical 
organism  to  an  iuunortal  soul.  That  conceit  has  been 
taken  out  of  all  our  men  of  science,  and  out  of  all  our 
doctors,  by  the  evolutionists;  and  when  it  is  considered 
how  comj)letely  obsessed  biological  science  has  become 
in  our  days,  not  by  tin-  full  seoj)e  of  evolution,  but  by 
that  particular  method  of  it  which  has  neither  sense  nor 
purpose  nor  life  nor  anything  human,  much  less  godlike, 
in  it:  by  the  method,  that  is.  of  so-called  Natural  Selec- 
tion (meaning  no  selection  at  all.  but  mere  dead  accident 
and  luck),  the  folly  of  trusting  to  viviseetors  to  hold 
the  human  animal  any  more  sacred  than  ^he  other  ani- 
mals becomes  so  clear  that  it  w<n>ld  be  waste  of  time  to 
insist  further  on  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  man  who 
once  concedes  to  the  vivisector  the  right  to  j)ut  a  dog 
outside  the  laws  of  honor  and  fellowship,  concedes  to 
him  also  the  right  to  put  himself  outside  them;  for  he  is 
nothing  to  the  vivisector  but  a  more  highly  developed, 
and  consequeiitly  more  interesting-to-experiment-on  ver- 
tebrate than  the  dt)g. 

\'ivist'e'tin;^'   tlif   Unman    Snl)jcct 

I  liave  in  my  hand  a  printed  and  published  account  by 
a  doctor  of  how  he  tested  his  remedy  for  pulmonary  tu- 
berculosis, which  was,  to  inject  a  powerful  germicide 
directly  into  the  circulation  by  stabbing  a  vein  with  a 
syringe.  He  was  one  of  those  doctors  who  are  able  to 
eonnnand  j)ublic  sympathy  by  saying,  quite  truly,  that 
wheji  they  discovered  that  the  proposed  treatment  was 
dangerous,  they  experimented  thenceforth  on  themselves. 
In  this  case  the  doctor  was  devoted  enough  to  carry  his 
experiments  to  the  point  of  running  serious  risks,  and 
actually    making   himself   very    uncomfortable.      But    he 


Preface  on  Doctors  Iv 

did  not  begin  with  liiniself.  His  first  experiment  was 
on  two  hospital  patients.  On  reeeiving  a  message  from 
the  hospital  to  the  etfeet  that  these  two  martyrs  to  thera- 
peutic science  liad  all  but  expired  in  convulsions,  he 
experimented  on  a  rabbit,  which  instantly  droj)pcd  dead. 
It  was  then,  and  not  until  then,  that  lie  began  to  ex- 
periment on  himsilf,  with  the  germicide  modified  in  the 
direction  indicated  by  the  ex])eriments  juade  on  the  two 
patients  and  tin-  rabbit.  As  a  good  many  jn-ople  coun- 
tenance vivisection  because  they  fear  that  if  the  ex|)eri- 
ments  are  not  made  on  rabbits  they  will  be  made  on 
themselves,  it  is  worth  noting  that  in  this  case,  where 
both  rabbits  and  men  were  equally  available,  the  men, 
Ixing,  of  course,  enormously  more  instructive,  and  cost- 
ing nothing,  were  experinu-nted  on  first.  Once  grant  the 
t'tliics  of  the  vivisectionists  and  ycni  not  only  sanction  the 
experiment  on  the  human  subj«ct,  but  make  it  the  first 
duty  of  the  vivisector.  If  a  guinea  pig  may  be  sacrificed 
for  the  sake  of  the  very  little  that  can  be  learnt  from  it, 
shall  not  a  man  be  sacrificed  for  the  sake  of  the  great 
deal  that  can  be  learnt  from  him?  At  all  events,  he  is 
sacrificed,  as  this  tyj)ical  case  shows.  I  may  add  (not 
that  it  touches  the  argument)  that  the  doctor,  the  pa- 
tients, and  the  rabbit  all  suffered  in  vain,  as  far  as  the 
hoped-for  rescue  of  the  race  from  pulmonary  consump- 
tion is  concerned. 

"  The  Lie  is  a  European  Power  " 

Now  at  the  very  time  when  the  Jectures  describing 
these  experiments  were  being  circulated  in  jirint  and 
discussed  eagerly  by  the  medical  profession,  the  custo- 
mary denials  that  patients  are  experimented  on  were  as 
loud,  as  indignant,  as  high-minded  as  ever,  in  spite  of 
the  few  intelligent  doctors  who  point  out  rigbtly  that 
all  treatments  are  experiments  on  the  patient.     And  this 


' 


hi  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

brings  us  to  an  obvious  but  mostly  overlooked  weakness 
in   tlic   vivisector's   position:   that    is,   his    inevitable   for- 
feiture  of   all   claim   to   have   his   word  believed.      It   is 
hardly  to  be  expected  that  a  man  who  does  not  hesitate 
to  vivisect   for  the  sake  of  science  will   hesitate  to   lie 
about   it  afterwards   to   protect    it    from   what   he   deems 
the  ignorant  sentimentality  of  tfie  laity.     When  the  pub- 
lic conscience   stirs    uneasily   and   threatens    suppression, 
there  is  never  wanting  some  doctor  of  eminent   position 
and  high  character  who  will   sacrifice  himself  devotedly 
to  the  cause  of  science  by  coming  forward  to  assure  the 
public  on  his  honor  that  all  experiments  on  animals  are 
eomj)letely    painless;    although    he    must    know    that   the 
very   experiments   wliich    first   ])rovoked    tlif    anti-vivisec- 
tioii    movement    by    their    atrocity    were    experiments    to 
ascertain    the    physiological    effects    of    the    sensation    of 
extreme  pain    (the  much  more  interesting  })hysiology  of 
pleasure    remains    uninvestigated)    and    that    all    experi- 
ments in  which  sensation  is  a   factor  are  voided  by  its 
suppression.      Besides,    vivisection    may    be    painless    in 
cases  where  the  experiments  are  very  cruel.     If  a  person 
scratches  me  with  a  poisoned  dagger  so  gently  that  I  do 
not  feel  the  scratch,  he   has  achieved   a   i)ainless  vivisec- 
tion; but  if  I   presently  die  in  tormtnt    1   am  not  likely 
to   consider  that   his   humanity    is    amply    vindicated    by 
his  gentleness.      A   cobra's   bite   hurts   so   little   that  the 
creature    is    almost,    legally    speaking,    a    vivisector   who 
inflicts  no  pain.     By  giving  his  victims  chloroform  before 
biting  them  he  could  comply  with  the  law  completely. 

Here,  then,  is  a  pretty  deadlock.  Public  support  of 
vivisection  is  founded  almost  wholly  on  the  assurances  of 
t}ie  vivisectors  that  great  public  benefits  may  be  expected 
from  the  practice.  Not  for  a  moment  do  I  suggest  that 
such  a  defence  would  be  valid  even  if  proved.  But  when 
the  witnesses  begin  by  alleging  that  in  the  cause  of 
science  all  the  customary  ethical  obligations   (which  in- 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ivii 

elude  the  obligation  to  tell  the  trutli)  are  suspended, 
what  weight  ean  any  reasonable  person  give  to  tlieir 
testimon}'?  I  would  rather  swear  fifty  lies  than  take  an 
animal  which  had  licked  uiy  hand  in  good  fellowshii)  and 
torture  it.  If  I  did  torture  the  dog,  I  should  certainly 
not  have  the  face  to  turn  round  and  ask  how  any  person 
dare  susjjeet  an  honorable  man  like  myself  of  telling  lies. 
Most  sensible  and  humane  people  would,  I  hope,  reply 
flatly  that  honorable  men  do  not  behave  dishonorably 
even  to  dogs.  The  murderer  who,  when  asked  by  the 
chaplain  whether  he  had  any  other  crimes  to  confess, 
replied  indignantly,  "  What  do  you  take  me  for.''"  re- 
minds us  very  strongly  of  the  vivisectors  who  are  so 
deeply  liurt  when  their  evidence  is  set  aside  as  worthless. 

An  Areunient  which   would   Defend  any 


t^ 


Crime 


The  Achilles  heel  of  vivisection,  however,  is  not  to  be 
found  in  tlie  pain  it  causes,  but  in  the  line  of  argument 
by  which  it  is  justified.  The  medical  code  regarding  it  is 
simply  criminal  anarchism  at  its  very  worst.  Indeed  no 
crimuial  has  yet  had  the  impudence  to  argue  as  every 
\ivisector  argues.  No  burglar  contends  that  as  it  is  ad- 
mittedly important  to  have  money  to  spend,  and  as  the 
object  of  burglary  is  to  provide  the  burglar  with  money 
to  spend,  and  as  in  many  instances  it  has  achieved  this 
object,  therefore  the  burglar  is  a  public  benefactor  and 
the  police  are  ignorant  sentimentalists.  No  highway 
robber  has  yet  harrowed  us  with  denunciations  of  the 
puling  moralist  who  allows  his  child  to  suffer  all  the 
evils  of  poverty  because  certain  faddists  think  it  dis- 
honest to  garotte  an  alderman.  Thieves  and  assassins 
understand  quite  well  that  there  are  paths  of  acquisition, 
even  of  the  best  things,  that  are  barred  to  all  men  of 
honor.     Again,  has  the   silliest  burglar   ever   pretended 


Iviii  The  Doctor's  Dilenmia 

that  to  put  a  stop  to  hurj^lary  is  to  put  a  stop  to  indus- 
try? All  the  vivisections  that  have  hvvn  jjcrfornud  since 
the  world  began  have  produced  nothing  so  important  as 
the  innocent  and  honorable  discovery  of  radiography; 
and  one  of  the  reasons  why  radiography  was  not  discov- 
ered sooner  was  that  the  men  whose  business  it  was  to 
discover  new  clinical  methods  were  coarsening  and  stupe- 
fying themselves  with  the  sensual  villanies  and  cut- 
throat's casuistries  of  vivisection.  The  law  of  the  con- 
servation of  energy  holds  good  in  physiology  as  in  other 
things:  every  vivisector  is  a  deserter  from  the  army  of 
honorable  investigators.  But  the  vivisector  docs  not  see 
this.  He  not  only  calls  his  methods  scientific:  he  con- 
tends that  there  are  no  other  scientiHc  nn-thods.  When 
you  express  your  natural  loathing  for  his  cruelty  and 
your  natural  contempt  for  his  stupidity,  he  imagines  that 
you  are  attacking  science.  Yet  he  has  no  inkling  of  the 
methotl  and  temper  of  science.  Tlie  point  at  issue  being 
plainly  whether  he  is  a  rascal  Or  not,  he  not  only  insists 
that  the  real  point  is  whether  some  hotheaded  anti- 
vivisectionist  is  a  liar  (which  he  proves  by  ridiculously 
unscientific  assumptions  as  to  the  degree  of  accuracy 
attainable  in  human  statement),  but  never  dreams  of 
offering  any  scientiHc  evidence  by  his  own  methods. 

There  are  many  paths  to  knowledge  already  discov- 
ered ;  and  no  enlightened  man  doubts  that  there  are 
many  more  waiting  to  be  discovered.  Indeed,  all  paths 
lead  to  knowledge;  because  even  the  vilest  and  stupidest 
action  teaches  us  something  about  vileness  and  stupidity, 
and  may  accidentally  teach  us  a  good  deal  more:  for 
instance,  a  cutthroat  learns  (and  perhaps  teaches)  the 
anatomy  of  the  carotid  artery  and  jugular  vein;  and 
there  can  be  no  question  that  the  burning  of  St.  Joan  of 
Arc  must  have  been  a  most  instructive  and  interesting 
experiment  to  a  good  observer,  and  could  have  been 
made  more  so  if  it  had  been  carried  out  by  skilled  physi- 


Preface  on  Doctors  lix 

ologists  under  laboratory  conditions.  The  earthquake  in 
San  Francisco  proved  in\aluahle  as  an  ex])orinient  in 
the  stability  of  jfiant  steel  buildinfjs;  and  tin-  ramniinjEf 
of  the  Victoria  by  the  Caniperdown  settled  doubtful 
points  of  the  greatest  importance  in  naval  warfare.  Ac- 
cording to  vivisectionist  logic  our  builders  would  be 
justified  in  producing  artificial  earthquakes  with  dyna- 
mite, and  our  admirals  in  contriving  catastrophes  at 
naval  mnna'uvres.  in  order  to  follow  up  the  line  of  re- 
searcli  thus  accidentally  discovered. 

The  trutii  is,  if  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  justifies 
every  sort  of  conduct,  it  justifies  any  sort  of  conduct, 
from  the  illumination  of  Nero's  feasts  by  burning  human 
beings  alive  (another  interesting  experiment)  to  the  sim- 
plest act  of  kindness.  And  in  the  light  of  that  truth  it 
is  clear  that  the  exemption  of  the  pursuit  of  knowledge 
from  the  laws  of  honor  is  tiie  most  hideous  conceivable 
enlargement  of  anarchy;  worse,  by  far,  than  an  exemp- 
tion of  the  pursuit  of  money  or  political  power,  since 
these  can  hardly  be  attained  without  some  regard  for 
at  least  the  appearances  of  human  welfare,  whereas  a 
curious  devil  might  destroy  the  whole  race  in  torment, 
acquiring  knowledge  all  the  time  from  his  highly  inter- 
esting ex]H*riment.  There  is  more  danger  in  one  respect- 
able scientist  countenancing  such  a  monstrous  claim  than 
in  fifty  assassins  or  dynamitards.  The  man  who  makes 
it  is  ethically  imbecile;  and  whoever  imagines  that  it  is  a 
scientific  claim  has  not  the  faintest  conception  of  what 
science  means.  The  paths  to  knowledge  are  coimtless. 
One  of  these  paths  is  a  path  through  darkness,  secrecy, 
and  cruelty.  When  a  man  deliberately  turns  from  all 
other  paths  and  goes  down  that  one,  it  is  scientific  to 
infer  that  what  attracts  him  is  not  knowledge,  since 
there  are  other  paths  to  that,  but  cruelty.  With  so 
strong  and  scientific  a  case  against  him,  it  is  childish 
for  him  to  stand  on  his  honor  and  reputation  and  high 


Ix  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

cliaractcr  and  the  credit  of  a  noble  profession  and  so 
forth:  he  must  clear  himself  either  by  reason  or  by  ex- 
periment, unless  he  boldly  contends  that  evolution  has 
retained  a  passion  of  cruelty  in  man  just  because  it  is 
indispensable  to  the  fulness  of  his  knowledge. 

Thou  Art  The  Man 

I  shall  not  be  at  all  surprised  if  wliat  I  have  written 
above  has  induced  in  symjiathetic  readers  a  transport  of 
virtuous  iiidijjnation  at  the  exi)ense  of  the  nicdieal  jiro- 
fession.  I  shall  not  damp  so  eredital)le  and  salutary  a 
sentiment;  but  I  nnist  j)oint  out  that  the  guilt  is  sliared 
by  all  of  us.  It  is  not  in  his  capacity  of  healer  and  man 
of  science  that  the  doctor  vivisects  or  defertds  vivisection, 
but  in  his  entirely  vulgar  lay  capacity.  He  is  made  of 
the  same  clay  as  tin-  igiu)rant.  sh.^lhiw,  credulous,  half- 
miseducated,  pecuniarily  anxious  jx-ople  who  call  liim  in 
when  they  have-  tried  in  vain  every  hottle  and  every  pill 
the  advertizing  druggist  can  persuade  them  to  buy.  The 
real  remedy  for  vivisection  is  the  remedy  for  all  the 
mischief  that  the  medical  profession  and  all  the  other 
professions  are  doing:  namely,  more  knowledge.  The 
juries  which  send  the  poor  Peculiars  to  prison,  and  give 
vivisectionists  heavy  damages  against  humane  persons 
wlio  accuse  them  of  cruelty;  the  editors  and  councillors 
and  student-led  mobs  who  are  striving  to  make  Vivisec- 
tion one  of  the  watchwords  of  our  civilization,  arc  not 
doctors:  they  are  the  British  public,  all  so  afraid  to  die 
that  they  will  cling  frantically  to  any  idol  which  prom- 
ises to  cure  all  their  diseases,  and  crucify  anyone  who 
tells  them  that  they  must  not  only  die  when  their  time 
comes,  but  die  like  gentlemen.  In  their  paroxysms  of 
cowardice  and  selfishness  they  force  the  doctors  to  humor 
their  folly  and  ignorance.  How  complete  and  inconsid- 
erate their  ignorance  is  can  onlv  be  realized  by  those 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixi 

wlio  have  some  kiunvUdfjc  of  vit.il  statistics,  and  of  the 
illusions  wliich  beset  Public  Health  kjfislation. 


What  tlie  Public  Wants  and  Will  Not  Get 

The  demands  of  this  jioor  ))ublic  arc  not  reasonable, 
but  they  are  quite  simj)le.  It  dreads  disease  and  desires 
to  l)c  j)rotected  against  it.  But  it  is  poor  and  wants  to  be 
j)rotected  cheaply.  Scientific  measures  arc  too  hard  to 
niuhrstand,  too  costly,  too  clearly  tending  towards  a  rise 
in  the  rates  and  more  ))ublic  interft-renre  with  the  in- 
sanitary, because  insufiicieiitly  financed,  private  house. 
What  the  public  wants,  therefore,  is  a  cheap  magic 
charm  to  prcAcnt,  and  a  cheap  pill  or  potion  to  cure,  all 
disease.     It  forces  all  such  charms  on  the  doctors. 


The  Vaccination  Craze 

Thus  it  was  really  the  public  and  not  the  medical  pro- 
fession that  took  up  vaccination  with  irresistible  faith, 
sweephig  the  invention  out  of  Jennrr's  hand  and  estab- 
lishing it  in  a  form  which  he  hims<  If  repudiated.  Jenncr 
was  not  a  man  of  science ;  but  he  was  not  a  fool ;  and 
when  lie  found  that  people  who  had  suffered  from  cow- 
pox  either  by  contagion  in  the  milking  shed  or  by  vac- 
cination, were  not,  as  he  had  supposed,  immune  from 
smallpox,  he  ascribed  the  cases  of  immunity  which  had 
formerly  misled  him  to  a  disease  of  the  horse,  which, 
perhaps  because  we  do  not  drink  its  milk  and  eat  its 
rtesh,  is  kept  at  a  greater  distance  in  our  imagination  than 
our  foster  mother  the  cow.  At  all  events,  the  public, 
which  had  been  boundlessly  credulous  about  the  cow, 
would  not  have  the  horse  on  any  terms ;  and  to  this  day 
the  law  which  prescribes  Jennerian  vaccination  is  carried 
out  ^vith  an  anti-Jennerian  inoculation  because  the  pub- 


Ixii  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

lie  would  have  it  so  in  spite  of  Jenner.  All  the  grossest 
lies  and  superstitions  wliieh  have  disgraced  the  vaccina- 
tion craze  were  taught  to  the  doctors  by  the  public.  It 
was  not  the  doctors  who  first  began  to  declare  that  all 
our  old  men  remember  the  time  when  almost  every  face 
they  saw  in  the  street  was  horribly  pitted  with  smallpox, 
and  that  all  this  disfigurement  has  vanished  since  the 
introduction  of  vaccination.  Jenner  himself  alluded  to 
this  imaginary  ])hcnomcnon  before  the  introduction  of 
vaccination,  and  attributed  it  to  the  older  practice  of 
smallpox  inoculation,  by  which  V^^ltaire,  Catherine  II. 
and  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  so  confidently  ex- 
pected to  see  the  disease  made  harmless.  It  was  not 
Jenner  who  set  people  declaring  that  svnallpox,  if  not 
abolished  by  vaccination,  had  at  least  been  made  much 
milder:  on  the  contrary,  he  recorded  a  pre-vaccination 
epidemic  in  Mhieli  none  of  the  persons  attacked  went  to 
bed  or  considered  themselves  as  seriously  ill.  Xrither 
Jenner,  nor  any  other  doctor  ever,  as  far  as  I  know, 
inculcated  the  popular  notion  that  everybody  got  sniall- 
pox  as  a  matter  of  course  before  vaccination  was  in- 
vented. That  doctors  get  infected  with  these  delusions, 
and  are  in  their  unprofessional  ea])acity  as  members  of 
the  piiblic  subject  to  them  like  other  men,  is  true;  but 
if  we  had  to  decide  whether  vaccination  was  first  forced 
on  the  jniblic  by  the  doctors  or  on  the  doctors  by  the 
public,  we  should  have  to  decide  against  the  public. 

Statistical  Illusions 

Public  ignorance  of  the  laws  of  evidence  and  of  statis- 
tics can  hardly  be  exaggerated.  There  may  be  a  doctor 
here  and  there  who  in  dealing  with  the  statistics  of 
disease  has  taken  at  least  the  first  step  towards  sanity 
by  grasping  the  fact  that  as  an  attack  of  even  the  com- 
monest disease  is  an  exceptional  event,  apparently  over- 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixiii 

■whelming  statistical  evidence  in  favor  of  any  prophy- 
lactic can  be  produced  by  persuading  tlie  public  that 
everybody  caught  the  disease  formerly.  Thus  if  a  dis- 
ease is  one  which  normally  attacks  fifteen  per  cent  of  the 
population,  and  if  the  effect  of  a  prophylactic  is  actually 
to  increase  the  proportion  to  twenty  per  cent,  the  pub- 
lication of  this  Hjjure  of  twenty  per  cent  will  convince 
the  public  that  the  jiropliylactic  has  reduced  the  per- 
centage by  eighty  j)er  cent  instead  of  increasing  it  by 
five,  because  the  public,  left  to  itself  and  to  the  old  gen- 
tlemen who  are  always  ready  to  remember,  on  every  pos- 
sible subject,  that  things  used  to  be  much  worse  than 
they  are  now  (such  old  gentlemen  greatly  outnumber  the 
laudatores  tempori  acti),  M-ill  assume  tliat  the  former 
percentage  was  about  100.  The  vogue  of  the  Pasteur 
treatment  of  hydrojihobia,  for  instance,  was  due  to  the 
assuuii)tion  by  the  public  that  every  person  bitten  by  a 
rabid  dog  necessarily  got  hydrophobia.  I  myself  heard 
hydrophobia  discussed  in  my  youth  by  doctors  in  Dublin 
before  a  Pasteur  Institute  existed,  the  subject  having 
been  brought  forward  there  by  the  sce})tieism  of  an  emi- 
nent surgeon  as  to  whether  hydrophobia  is  really  a 
specific  disease  or  only  ordinary  tetanus  induced  (as 
tetanus  was  then  supposed  to  be  induced)  by  a  lacerated 
wound.  There  were  no  statistics  available  as  to  the  pro- 
portion of  dog  bites  that  ended  in  hydrophobia ;  but 
nobody  ever  guessed  that  the  cases  could  be  more  than 
two  or  three  per  cent  of  the  bites.  On  me,  therefore,  the 
results  published  by  the  Pasteur  Institute  produced  no 
such  effect  as  they  did  on  the  ordinary  man  who  thinks 
that  the  bite  of  a  mad  dog  means  certain  hydrophobia. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  the  proportion  of  deaths  among  the 
cases  treated  at  the  Institute  was  rather  higher,  if  any- 
thing, than  might  have  been  expected  had  there  been  no 
Institute  in  existence.  But  to  the  public  every  Pasteur 
patient  who  did  not  die  was  miraculously  saved  from  an 


Ixiv  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

agonizing  deatli  by  tlic   beneficent  white  magic   of  that 
most  trusty  of  all  wizards,  the  man  of  science. 

Even  trained  statisticians  often  fail  to  appreciate  the 
extent  to  which  statistics  are  vitiated  by  the  unrecorded 
assumptions  of  their  interpreters.  Their  attention  is  too 
much  occupied  with  the  cruder  tricks  of  those  who  make 
a  corrupt  use  of  statistics  for  advertizing  purposes. 
There  is,  for  examj)le,  the  percentage  dodge.  In  some 
hamlet,  barely  large  enough  to  have  a  name,  two  people 
are  attacked  during  a  smallpox  epidemic.  One  dies:  the 
other  recovers.  One  has  vaccination  marks :  the  other 
has  none.  Immediately  either  the  vaccinists  or  the  anti- 
vaceinists  publish  the  triumphant  news  that  at  such  and 
such  a  {)lace  n()t  .i  single  vaccinated  person  died  of  small- 
pox whilst  100  per  cent  of  the  unvaccinated  perished 
miserably;  or,  as  the  case  may  be,  that  100  per  cent  of 
the  unvaccinated  recovered  whilst  the  vaccinated  suc- 
cumbed to  the  last  man.  Or,  to  take  another  common  in- 
stance, comparisons  •which  are  really  comparisons  be- 
tween two  social  classes  with  different  staiulards  of 
nutrition  and  education  arc  palmed  off  as  comparisons 
between  the  results  of  a  certain  medical  treatment  and 
its  neglect.  Thus  it  is  easy  to  prove  that  the  wearing 
of  tall  hats  and  the  carrying  of  umbrellas  enlarges  the 
chest,  prolongs  life,  and  confers  comparative  immunity 
from  disease;  for  the  statistics  shew  that  the  classes 
which  use  these  articles  are  bigger,  healthier,  and  live 
longer  than  the  class  which  never  dreams  of  possessing 
such  things.  It  does  not  take  much  perspicacity  to  see 
tliat  what  really  makes  this  difference  is  not  the  tall  hat 
and  the  umbrella,  but  the  wealth  and  nourishment  of 
which  they  are  evidence,  and  that  a  gold  watch  or  mem- 
bership of  a  club  in  Pall  Mall  might  be  proved  in  the 
same  way  to  have  the  like  sovereign  virtues.  A  univer- 
sity degree,  a  daily  bath,  the  owning  of  thirty  pairs  of 
trousers,    a    knowledge    of    Wagner's    music,    a    pew    in 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixv 

church,  nnytliiiif!:,  in  short,  that  implies  more  means  and 
better  nurture  than  the  mass  of  laborers  enjoy,  can  be 
statistically  palmed  off  as  a  magic-spell  conferring  all 
sorts  of  privileges. 

In  the  case  of  a  prophylactic  enforced  by  law,  this 
illusion  is  intensified  grotesquely,  because  only  vagrants 
can  evade  it.  Now  vagrants  have  little  power  of  resist- 
ing any  disease:  tluir  death  rate  and  their  case-mortal- 
ity rate  is  always  high  relatively  to  that  of  respectable 
folk.  Nothing  is  easier,  therefore,  than  to  prove  that 
compliance  with  any  public  regulation  produces  the  most 
gratifying  results.  It  would  be  equally  easy  even  if  the 
regulation  actually  raised  the  death-rate,  provided  it  did 
not  raise  it  sufHciently  to  make  the  average  householder, 
who  caiuiot  evade  regulations,  die  as  early  as  the  average 
vagrant  who  can. 

The  Surprises  of  Attention  and  Xeglect 

There  is  another  statistical  illusion  which  is  inde- 
pendent of  class  differences.  A  common  complaint  of 
houseowners  is  that  the  Public  Hcaltli  Authorities  fre- 
quently compel  them  to  instal  costly  sanitary  appliances 
which  are  condemned  a  few  years  later  as  dangerous  to 
health,  and  forbidden  under  penalties.  Yet  these  dis- 
carded mistakes  are  always  made  in  the  first  instance  on 
the  strength  of  a  demonstration  that  their  introduction 
has  reduced  the  death-rate.  The  explanation  is  simple. 
Supjiose  a  law  were  made  that  every  child  in  the  nation 
should  be  compelled  to  drink  a  pint  of  brandy  per 
month,  but  that  the  brandy  must  be  administered  only 
when  the  child  was  in  good  health,  with  its  digestion 
and  so  forth  working  normally,  and  its  teeth  either  nat- 
urally or  artificially  sound.  Probably  the  result  would 
be  an  immediate  and  startling  reduction  in  child  mor- 
tality, leading  to  further  legislation  increasing  the  quan- 


Ixvi  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

tity  of  brandy  to  a  gallon.  Not  until  the  brandy  craze 
had  been  carried  to  a  point  at  which  the  direct  harm 
done  by  it  would  outweigh  the  incidental  good,  would  an 
anti-br.'uidy  party  be  listened  to.  Tliat  incidental  good 
would  be  the  substitution  of  attention  to  the  general 
health  of  children  for  the  neglect  which  is  now  the  rule 
so  long  as  the  child  is  not  actually  too  sick  to  run  about 
and  play  as  usual.  Even  if  this  attention  were  confined 
to  the  children's  teeth,  there  would  be  an  improvement 
which  it  would  take  a  good  deal  of  brandy  to  cancel. 

This  imaginary  case  explains  the  actual  case  of  the 
sanitary  a{)p]ianees  which  (inr  local  sanitary  authorities 
prescribe  today  and  condemn  tomorrow.  No  sanitary 
contrivance  which  the  mind  of  even  the  very  worst 
plumber  can  devize  could  be  as  disastrous  as  that  total 
neglect  for  long  periods  which  gets  avenged  by  pesti- 
lences that  sweep  throiigli  whole  continents,  like  the 
black  death  and  the  cliolera.  If  it  were  ))roposed  at  this 
time  of  day  to  discharge  all  the  sewage  of  London  crude 
and  untreated  into  the  Thames,  instead  of  carrying  it, 
after  elaborate  treatment,  far  out  into  the  North  Sea, 
there  would  be  a  shriek  of  horror  from  all  our  experts. 
Yet  if  Cromwell  had  done  that  instead  of  doing  nothing, 
there  would  probably  have  been  no  Great  Plague  of  Lon- 
don. When  the  Local  Health  Authority  forces  every 
householder  to  have  his  sanitary  arrangements  thought 
about  and  attended  to  by  somebody  whose  special  busi- 
ness it  is  to  attend  to  such  things,  then  it  matters  not 
how  erroneous  or  even  directly  mischievous  may  be  the 
specific  measures  taken :  the  net  result  at  first  is  sure 
to  be  an  improvement.  Not  until  attention  has  been 
effectually  substituted  for  neglect  as  the  general  rule, 
will  the  statistics  begin  to  shew  the  merits  of  the  par- 
ticular methods  of  attention  adopted.  And  as  we  are  far 
from  having  arrived  at  this  stage,  being  as  to  health 
legislation  only  at  the  beginning  of  things,  we  have  prac- 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixvii 

tically  no  evidence  j'et  as  to  the  value  of  methods.  Sim- 
ple and  obvious  as  this  is,  nobody  seems  as  yet  to  dis- 
count the  effect  of  substituting  attention  for  neglect  in 
drawing  conclusions  from  health  statistics.  Everything 
is  put  to  the  credit  of  tlie  particular  method  emj)loycd, 
although  it  may  quite  possibly  be  raising  tlic  death  rate 
by  five  per  thousand  whilst  the  attention  incidental  to  it 
is  reducing  the  death  rate  fifteen  per  thousand.  The  net 
gain  of  ten  per  thousand  is  credited  to  the  method,  and 
made  the  excuse  for  enforcing  more  of  it. 

Stealing  Credit  from  Civilization 

There  is  yet  another  way  in  which  specifics  which  have 
no  merits  at  all,  either  direct  or  incidental,  may  be 
brought  into  high  repute  by  statistics.  For  a  century 
past  civilization  has  been  cleaning  away  the  conditions 
which  favor  bacterial  fevers.  Typhus,  once  rife,  has  van- 
ished: plague  and  cliolora  have  been  stojiped  at  our  fron- 
tiers by  a  sanitary  blockade.  We  still  have  epidemics  of 
smallpox  and  typhoid ;  and  di])htheria  and  scarlet  fever 
are  endemic  in  tlie  slums.  Measles,  which  in  my  child- 
hood was  not  regarded  as  a  dangerous  disease,  has  now 
become  so  mortal  that  notices  are  posted  publicly  urging 
parents  to  take  it  seriously.  But  even  in  these  cases  the 
contrast  between  the  dcatli  and  recovery  rates  in  the  rich 
districts  and  in  the  poor  ones  has  led  to  the  general  con- 
viction among  experts  that  bacterial  diseases  are  preventi- 
ble;  and  they  already  are  to  a  large  extent  prevented. 
The  dangers  of  infection  and  the  way  to  avoid  it  are  bet- 
ter understood  than  they  used  to  be.  It  is  barely  twenty 
years  since  people  exposed  themselves  recklessly  to  the 
infection  of  consumption  and  pneumonia  in  the  belief  that 
these  diseases  were  not  "  catching."  Nowadays  the 
troubles  of  consumptive  patients  are  greatly  increased  by 
the    growing   disposition   to    treat  them   as    lepers.      No 


Ixviii  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

doubt  there  is  a  jjood  deal  of  ignorant  exaggeration  and 
cowardly  refusal  to  face  a  luiman  and  necessary  share  of 
the  risk.  That  has  alwa^-s  been  the  case.  We  now  know 
that  the  medieval  liorror  of  leprosy  was  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  the  danger  of  infection,  and  was  accompanied 
by  apparent  blindness  to  tlie  infectiousness  of  smallpox, 
Avhicli  has  since  been  worked  up  by  our  disease  terror- 
ists into  the  jiosition  formerly  held  by  leprosy.  But  the 
scare  of  infection,  though  it  sets  even  doctors  talking  as 
if  the  only  really  scientific  thing  to  do  with  a  fever  pa- 
tient is  to  tlirow  him  into  the  nearest  ditch  and  pun^.p 
carbolic  acid  on  liim  from  a  safe  distance  until  he  is  ready 
to  be  cremated  on  the  spot,  has  led  to  much  greater  care 
and  cleanliness.  And  the  net  result  has  baen  a  series  of 
victories  over  disease. 

Now  let  us  suppose  that  in  the  early  nineteenth  cen- 
tury somebody  had  come  forward  with  a  tlieory  th  t 
typhus  fever  always  begins  in  the  top  joint  of  the  little 
finger;  and  that  if  this  joint  be  amputated  immediately 
after  birtli.  typhus  fever  will  disappear.  Had  such  a 
suggestion  been  adopted,  the  theory  would  have  been  tri- 
mnphantly  confirmed;  for  as  a  matter  of  fact,  typhus 
fever  lia.i  disai)peared.  On  the  other  hand  cancer  and 
madness  have  increased  (statistically)  to  an  appalling 
extent.  The  opponents  of  the  little  finger  theory  would 
therefore  be  pretty  sure  to  allege  that  the  amputations 
were  spreading  cancer  and  lunacy.  The  vaccination  con- 
troversy is  full  of  such  contentions.  So  is  the  contro- 
vers}'  as  to  the  docking  of  horses*  tails  and  the  cropping 
of  dogs'  cars.  So  is  the  less  widely  known  controversy 
as  to  circumcision  and  the  declaring  certain  kinds  of  flesh 
unclean  by  the  Jews.  To  advertize  any  remedy  or  opera- 
tion, you  have  only  to  pick  out  all  the  most  reassuring 
advances  made  by  civilization,  and  boldly  present  the  two 
in  the  relation  of  cause  and  effect:  the  public  will  swal- 
low the  fallacv  without  a  wrv  face.     It  has  no  idea  of  the 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixix 

need  for  what  is  called  a  control  experiment.  In  Shake- 
spear's  time  and  for  long  after  it,  mummy  was  a  favorite 
medicament.  You  took  a  pinch  of  the  dust  of  a  dead 
Egyptian  in  a  pint  of  the  hottest  water  you  could  bear 
to  drink ;  and  it  did  you  a  great  deal  of  good.  This,  you 
thought,  proved  what  a  sovereign  healer  mummy  was. 
But  if  you  had  tried  the  control  experiment  of  taking  the 
hot  M'ater  without  the  mummy,  you  might  have  found 
the  effect  exactly  the  same,  and  that  any  hot  drink  would 
have  done  as  well. 

Biometrika 

Another  difficulty  about  statistics  is  the  technical  diffi- 
culty of  calculation.  Before  you  can  even  make  a  mistake 
in  drawing;  your  conclusion  from  the  correlations  estab- 
lished  by  your  statistics  you  must  ascertain  the  correla- 
tions. When  I  turn  over  the  pages  of  Biometrika,  a 
quarter!}'  journal  in  which  is  recorded  the  work  done  in 
the  field  of  biological  statistics  by  Professor  Karl  Pear- 
son and  his  colleagues,  I  am  out  of  my  dejjth  at  the  first 
line,  because  mathematics  are  to  me  only  a  concept:  I 
never  used  a  logarithm  in  my  life,  and  could  not  under- 
take to  extract  the  square  root  of  four  without  misgiving. 
I  am  therefore  unable  to  deny  that  the  statistical  ascer- 
tainment of  the  correlations  between  one  thing  and  an- 
other must  be  a  very  complicated  and  difficult  technical 
business,  not  to  be  tackled  successfully  except  by  high 
mathematicians;  and  I  cannot  resist  Professor  Karl  Pear- 
son's immense  contempt  for,  and  indignant  sense  of  grave 
social  danger  in,  the  unskilled  guesses  of  the  ordinary 
sociologist. 

Now  the  man  in  the  street  knows  nothing  of  Biome- 
trika: all  he  knows  is  that  "you  can  prove  anything  by 
figures,"  though  he  forgets  this  the  moment  figures  are 
used  to  prove  anything  he  wants  to  belie%'e.     If  ha  did 


Ixx  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

take  in  Biometrika  he  would  probably  become  abjectly 
credulous  as  to  all  the  conclusions  drawn  in  it  from  the 
correlations  so  learnedly  worked  out ;  though  the  mathe- 
matician whose  correlations  would  fill  a  Newton  with  ad- 
miration may,  in  collecting  and  acctpting  data  and  draw- 
conclusions  from  them,  fall  into  quite  crude  errors  by 
just  such  popular  oversights  as  I  have  been  describing. 

Patient-made  Therapeutics 

To  all  these  blunders  and  ignorances  doctors  are  no 
less  subject  than  the  rest  of  us.  They  are  not  trained 
in  the  use  of  evidence,  nor  in  biometrics,  nor  in  the  psy- 
chology of  human  credulity,  nor  in  the  incidence  of  eco- 
nomic pressure.  Further,  they  must  believe,  on  the  whole, 
what  their  patients  believe,  just  as  they  must  wear  the 
sort  of  hat  their  patients  wear.  The  doctor  may  lay 
down  tlie  law  despotically  enough  to  the  patient  at  jioints 
where  the  patient's  mind  is  simply  bl.ink;  but  when  the 
patient  has  a  prejudice  the  doctor  must  either  keep  it  in 
countenance  or  lose  his  patient.  If  people  are  persuaded 
that  night  air  is  dangerous  to  health  and  that  fresh  air 
makes  them  catch  cold,  it  will  not  be  possible  for  a  doc- 
tor to  make  his  living  in  private  practice  if  he  prescribes 
ventilation.  We  have  to  go  back  no  further  than  the  days 
of  The  Pickwick  Papers  to  find  ourselves  in  a  world 
■where  people  slept  in  four-post  beds  with  curtains  drawn 
closely  round  to  exclude  as  much  air  as  possible.  Had 
Mr.  Pickwick's  doctor  told  him  that  he  would  be  much 
healthier  if  he  slept  on  a  camp  bed  by  an  open  window, 
Mr.  Pickwick  would  have  regarded  him  as  a  crank  and 
called  in  another  doctor.  Had  he  gone  on  to  forbid  Mr. 
Pickwick  to  drink  brandy  and  water  whenever  he  felt 
chilly,  and  assured  him  that  if  he  were  deprived  of  meat 
or  salt  for  a  whole  year,  he  would  not  only  not  die,  but 
would  be  none  the  worse,  Mr.  Pickwick  would  have  fled 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixxi 

from  his  presence  as  from  tliat  of  a  dangerous  madman. 
And  in  these  matters  the  doctor  cannot  cheat  his  patient. 
If  he  lias  no  faitli  in  drugs  or  vaccination,  and  the  pa- 
tient has,  he  can  cheat  him  with  colored  water  and  pass 
his  lancet  through  the  flame  of  a  spirit  lamp  before 
scratching  liis  arm.  But  he  cannot  make  him  change  his 
daily  habits  without  knowing  it. 


The  Reforms  also  come  from  the  Laity 

In  the  main,  then,  the  doctor  learns  that  if  he  gets 
ahead  of  the  superstitions  of  his  patients  he  is  a  ruined 
man ;  and  the  result  is  that  he  instinctively  takes  care  not 
to  get  ahead  of  them.  That  is  why  all  the  changes  come 
from  the  laity.  It  was  not  until  an  agitation  had  been 
conducted  for  many  years  by  laymen,  including  quacks 
and  faddists  of  all  kinds,  that  the  public  was  sufficiently 
impressed  to  make  it  possible  for  the  doctors  to  ojien  their 
minds  and  their  mouths  on  the  subject  of  fresh  air,  cold 
water,  temperance,  and  the  rest  of  the  new  fashions  ill 
hygiene.  At  present  the  tables  have  been  turned  on 
many  old  prejudices.  Plenty  of  our  most  poi)ular  elderly 
doctors  believe  that  cold  tubs  in  the  morning  are  unnatu- 
ral, exhausting,  and  rheumatic;  that  fresh  air  is  a  fad 
and  that  everybody  is  the  better  for  a  glass  or  two  of 
port  wine  every  day;  but  they  no  longer  dare  say  as  much 
until  they  know  exactly  where  they  are;  for  many  very 
desirable  patients  in  country  houses  have  lately  been  per- 
suaded that  their  first  duty  is  to  get  up  at  six  in  the 
morning  and  begin  the  day  by  taking  a  walk  barefoot 
through  the  dewy  grass.  He  who  shews  the  least  scep- 
ticism as  to  this  practice  is  at  once  suspected  of  being 
"  an  old-fashioned  doctor,"  and  dismissed  to  make  room 
for  a  younger  man. 

In  short,  private  medical  practice  is  governed  not  by 


Ixxii  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

science  but  by  supply  and  demand ;  and  however  scien- 
tific a  treatment  may  be,  it  c.-innot  liold  its  place  in  the 
market  if  there  is  no  demand  for  it ;  nor  can  the  jjrossest 
quackery  be  kept  off  the  market  if  there  is  a  demand 
for  it. 

Fashions  and  Kj)i(lemics 

A  demand,  however,  can  be  inculcated.  This  is  thor- 
oughly understood  by  fashionable  tradesmen,  who  find 
no  difficulty  in  persuading  their  customers  to  renew  arti- 
cles that  are  not  worn  out  and  to  buy  things  they  do  not 
want.  By  making  doctors  tradesmen,  we  compel  them  to 
learn  the  tricks  of  trade;  conseijuently  we  find  that  the 
fashions  of  the  year  include  treatments,  operations,  and 
particular  drugs,  as  well  as  hats,  sleeves,  ballads,  and 
games.  Tonsils,  vern)iform  appendices,  uvulas,  even 
ovaries  are  sacrificed  because  it  is  the  fashion  to  get  them 
cut  out,  and  because  tlie  ojicrations  arc  highly  profitable. 
The  psychology  of  fashion  becomes  a  pathology;  for  the 
cases  have  every  air  of  being  genuine:  fashions,  after  all, 
are  only  induced  epidemics,  proving  that  ej)idemics  can 
be  induced  by  tradesmen,  and  therefore  by  doctors. 

The  Doctor's  Virtues 

It  M'ill  be  admitted  that  this  is  a  ))retty  bad  state  of 
tilings.  And  thi-  melodramatic  instinct  of  the  iniblic,  al- 
ways demanding  that  every  wrong  shall  have,  not  its 
remedy,  but  its  villain  to  be  hissed,  will  blame,  not  its  own 
apathy,  superstition,  and  ignorance,  but  the  depravity  of 
the  doctors.  Nothing  could  be  more  unjust  or  mischiev- 
ous. Doctors,  if  no  better  than  other  men,  are  certainly 
no  worse.  I  was  reproached  during  the  performances  of 
The  Doctor's  Dilemma  at  the  Court  Theatre  in  11)07  be- 
cause I  made  the  artist  a  rascal,  the  journalist  .in  illit- 
erate incapable,  and  all  the  doctors  "  angels."     But  I  did 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixxiii 

not  go  beyond  the  warrant  of  my  own  txperience.  It  has 
been  m}'  luck  to  have  doctors  among  my  friends  for 
nearly  forty  years  past  (all  perfectly  aware  of  my  free- 
dom from  the  usual  credulity  as  to  the  miraculous  powers 
and  knowledge  attributed  to  them);  and  though  I  know 
that  there*  arc  medical  bl;ickguards  as  well  as  military, 
legal,  and  clerical  blackguards  (one  soon  finds  that  out 
when  one  is  privileged  to  hear  doctors  talking  shop 
among  themselves),  the  fact  that  I  was  no  more  at  a  loss 
for  private  medical  advice  and  attendance  when  I  had  not 
a  penny  in  my  pocket  than  I  was  later  on  when  I  could 
afford  fees  on  the  highest  scale,  has  made  it  impossible 
for  me  to  share  that  liostility  to  the  doctor  as  a  man 
which  exists  and  is  growing  as  an  inevitable  result  of  the 
present  condition  of  medical  practice.  Not  that  the  in- 
terest in  disease  and  aberrations  which  turns  some  men 
and  women  to  medicine  and  surgery  is  not  sometimes  as 
morbid  as  the  interest  in  misery  and  vice  which  turns 
some  others  to  philanthropy  and  "  rescue  work."  But 
the  true  doctor  is  inspired  by  a  hatred  of  ill-liealth,  and 
a  divine  imp.itience  of  any  waste  of  vital  forces.  Unless 
a  man  is  led  to  medicine  or  surgery  through  a  very  excep- 
tional technical  aptitude,  or  because  doctoring  is  a  family 
tradition,  or  because  he  regards  it  unintelligently  as  a 
lucrative  and  gentlemanly  profession,  liis  motives  in 
clioosing  tlie  career  of  a  healer  are  clearly  generous. 
However  actual  practice  may  disillusion  and  corrujit  him, 
liis  selection  in  the  first  instance  is  not  a  selection  of  a 
base  character. 

The  Doctor's  Hardships 

A  review  of  the  counts  in  the  indictment  I  have  brought 
against  private  medical  practice  will  shew  that  they  arise 
out  of  the  doctor's  position  as  a  competitive  private 
tradesman :  that  is,  out  of  his  poverty  and  dependence. 


Ixxiv  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

And  it  should  he  horno  in  mind  that  doctors  are  expected 
to  treat  other  people  specially  well  whilst  themselves 
submittitiii:  to  specially  inconsiderate  treatment.  The 
butcher  and  baker  are  not  expected  to  feed  the  hungry 
unless  the  hungry  can  pay;  but  a  doctor  who  allows  a 
fellow-creature  to  suffer  or  perisii  without  aid  is  regarded 
as  a  monster.  Even  if  we  must  dismiss  hospital  service 
as  really  venal,  the  fact  remains  that  most  doctors  do  a 
good  deal  of  gratuitous  work  in  private  practice  all 
through  their  careers.  And  in  his  j)aid  work  the  doctor 
is  on  a  ditTerent  footing  to  the  tradesman.  Although  the 
articles  he  sells,  advice  and  treatment,  are  the  same  for 
all  classes,  his  fees  have  to  be  graduated  like  the  income 
tax.  The  successful  fashionable  doctor  uiay  weed  his 
j)oorer  patients  out  from  time  to  time,  and  finally  use  the 
College  of  Physicians  to  pl.ice  it  out  of  his  own  jiower 
to  accept  low  fees;  but  the  ordinary  general  })ractitioner 
never  makes  out  his  bills  without  considering  the  taxable 
capacity  of  his  patients. 

Then  there  is  the  disregard  of  liis  own  health  and  com- 
fort which  results  from  the  fact  that  he  is,  by  the  nature 
of  his  work,  an  emergency  man.  We  are  polite  and  con- 
siderate to  the  doctor  when  there  is  nothing  the  matter, 
and  we  meet  him  as  a  friend  or  entertain  him  as  a  guest; 
but  when  the  baby  is  suffering  from  croup,  or  its  mother 
has  a  temperature  of  10i°,  or  its  grandfather  has  broken 
his  leg,  nobody  thinks  of  the  doctor  except  as  a  healer 
and  saviour.  He  may  be  hungry,  weary,  sleepy,  run 
down  by  several  successive  nights  disturbed  by  that  in- 
strument of  torture,  the  night  bell;  but  who  ever  thinks 
of  this  in  the  face  of  sudden  sickness  or  accident  ?  We 
think  no  more  of  the  condition  of  a  doctor  attending  a 
case  than  of  the  condition  of  a  fireman  at  a  fire.  In  other 
occupations  night-work  is  sjjccially  recognized  and  pro- 
vided for.  The  worker  sleeps  all  day;  has  his  breakfast 
in  the  evening;  his  lunch  or  dinner  at  midnight;  his  dii>- 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixxv 

ner  or  supper  before  going  to  bed  in  the  morning;  and 
he  changes  to  day-work  if  he  cannot  stand  night-work. 
But  a  doctor  is  ex])ected  to  work  day  and  niglit.  In 
practices  which  consist  largely  of  workmen's  clubs,  and 
in  which  the  patients  are  therefore  taken  on  wholesale 
terms  and  very  numerous,  the  unfortunate  assistant,  or 
the  principal  if  lie  has  no  assistant,  often  does  not  un- 
dress, knowing  that  he  will  be  called  up  before  he  has 
snatched  an  hour's  sleep.  To  the  strain  of  such  inhuman 
conditions  must  be  added  the  constant  risk  of  infection. 
One  wonders  why  the  impatient  doctors  do  not  become 
savage  and  unmanageable,  and  the  patient  ones  imbecile. 
Perhaps  they  do,  to  some  extent.  And  the  pay  is 
wretched,  and  so  uncertain  that  refusal  to  attend  without 
payment  in  advance  becomes  often  a  necessary  measure 
of  self-defence,  whilst  the  County  Court  has  long  ago 
])ut  an  end  to  the  tradition  that  the  doctor's  fee  is  an 
honorarium.  Even  the  most  eminent  physicians,  as  such 
biographies  as  those  of  Paget  shew,  are  sometimes  mis- 
erably, inhumanly  poor  until  they  are  past  their  prime. 
In  short,  the  doctor  needs  our  help  for  the  moment 
much  more  than  we  often  need  his.  The  ridicule  of 
.Moliere,  the  death  of  a  well-informed  and  clever  writer 
like  the  late  Harold  Frederic  in  the  hands  of  Christian 
Scientists  (a  sort  of  sealing  with  his  blood  of  the  con- 
temptuous disbelief  in  and  dislike  of  doctors  he  had  bit- 
terly expressed  in  his  books),  the  scathing  and  quite 
justifiable  exposure  of  medical  practice  in  the  novel  by 
Mr.  Maarten  Maartens  entitled  The  New  Religion:  all 
these  trouble  the  doctor  very  little,  and  are  in  anv  case 
well  set  off  by  the  popularity  of  Sir  Luke  Fildes'  famous 
picture,  and  by  the  verdicts  in  which  juries  from  time  to 
time  express  their  conviction  that  the  doctor  can  do  no 
wrong.  The  real  woes  of  the  doctor  are  the  shabby  coat, 
the  wolf  at  the  door,  the  tyranny  of  ignorant  patients, 
the  work-dav  of  '24  hours,  and  the  uselessness  of  hon- 


Ixxvi  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

estly  prescribing  what  most  of  the  patients  really  need: 
that  is^  not  medicine,  but  money. 

Tlic  Tublic  Doctor 

Wliat  then  is  to  be  done? 

Fortunately  we  have  not  to  be^n  absolutely  from  the 
beginning:  we  already  have,  in  the  Medical  Officer  of 
Health,  a  sort  of  doctor  who  is  free  from  the  worst  hard- 
ships, and  consequently  from  the  worst  vices,  of  the  pri- 
vate practitioner.  His  position  depends,  not  on  the  num- 
ber of  people  who  are  ill,  and  whom  he  can  keep  ill,  but 
on  the  numU-r  of  people  who  are  well.  He  is  judged,  as 
all  doctors  and  treatments  should  l)e  judged,  by  the  vital 
statistics  of  his  district.  When  the  death  rate  goes  up 
liis  credit  goes  down.  As  ev«-ry  increase  in  his  salary 
depends  on  the  issue  of  a  public  debate  as  to  the  health 
of  the  constituency  under  his  charge,  he  has  every  in- 
ducement to  strive  towards  the  ideal  of  a  clean  bill  of 
health.  He  has  a  safe,  dignitied.  responsible,  independ- 
ent position  based  wholly  on  the  |)ublie  health;  whereas 
the  })rivate  jiractitioner  has  a  precarious,  shabby-genteel, 
irresponsible,  servile  j)osition,  based  wholly  ou  the  preva- 
lence of  illness. 

It  is  true,  there  are  grave  scandals  in  the  public  medi- 
cal service.  The  public  doctor  may  be  also  a  private 
practitioner  eking  out  his  earnings  by  giving  a  little  time 
to  })ublic  \\()rk  for  a  mean  payment.  There  are  cases  in 
whieli  tin-  position  is  one  which  no  successful  j^ractitioner 
will  accept,  and  where,  therefore,  incapables  or  drunk- 
ards get  automatically  selected  for  the  post,  faute  de 
ni'u'ujc;  but  even  in  these  cases  the  doctor  is  less  disas- 
trous in  his  public  capacity  than  in  his  private  one:  be- 
sides, the  conditions  which  produce  these  bad  cases  are 
doomed,  as  the  evil  is  now  recognized  and  understood.  A 
popular  but  unstable  remedy  is  to  enable  local  authori- 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixxvii 

ties,  when  they  are  too  small  to  require  the  undivided 
time  of  such  men  as  the  Medical  Officers  of  our  great 
municipalities,  to  combine  for  public  health  pur])osfs  so 
that  each  may  share  the  services  of  a  highly  paid  official 
of  the  best  class;  but  the  right  remedy  is  a  larger  area 
as  the  sanitarv  unit. 


^Medical  Organization 

Another  advantage  of  public  medical  work  is  that  it 
admits  of  organization,  and  consequently  of  the  distribu- 
tion of  the  work  in  such  a  manner  as  to  avoid  wasting  the 
time  of  highly  (jualified  experts  on  trivial  jobs.  The  in- 
dividualism of  jjrivate  practice  leads  to  an  app.alling 
waste  of  time  on  trifles.  Men  whose  dexterity  as  opera- 
tors or  almost  divinatory  skill  in  diagnosis  are  constantly 
needed  for  difficult  eases,  are  poulticing  whitlows,  v.icci- 
nating,  changing  unimportant  dressings,  prescribing 
ether  drams  for  ladies  with  timid  leanings  towards  dip- 
somania, and  generally  wasting  their  time  in  the  pursuit 
of  pri\ate  fees.  In  no  other  jirofcssion  is  the  practitioner 
expected  to  do  all  the  work  involved  in  it  from  the  first 
day  of  his  professional  career  to  tlie  last  as  the  doctor  is. 
The  judge  passes  sentence  of  death;  but  he  is  not  ex- 
pected to  hang  the  criminal  with  his  own  hands,  as  he 
would  be  if  the  legal  profession  were  as  unorganized  as 
the  medical.  The  bishop  is  not  expected  to  blow  the 
organ  or  Avash  the  baby  he  baptizes.  The  general  is  not 
asked  to  plan  a  campaign  or  conduct  a  battle  at  half-past 
twelve  and  to  play  the  drum  at  half-past  two.  Even  if 
they  were,  things  would  still  not  be  as  bad  as  in  the 
medical  profession ;  for  in  it  not  only  is  the  first-class 
man  set  to  do  third-class  work,  but,  what  is  much  more 
terrifying,  the  third-class  man  is  expected  to  do  first- 
class  work.  Every  general  practitioner  is  supposed  to 
be  capable  of  the  whole  range  of  medical  and  surgical 


Ixxviii         The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

work  at  a  moment's  notice ;  and  the  country  doctor,  who 
has  not  a  specialist  nor  a  crack  consult-int  at  the  end  of 
his  telephone,  often  has  to  tackle  without  hesitation  cases 
which  no  sane  practitioner  in  a  town  would  take  in  hand 
without  assistance.  No  doubt  this  develops  the  resource- 
fulness of  the  country  doctor,  and  makes  him  a  more  ca- 
pable man  than  his  suburban  colleague;  but  it  cannot  de- 
velop the  second-class  man  into  a  first-class  one.  If  the 
])ractice  of  law  not  only  led  to  a  judge  having  to  hang, 
but  the  hangman  to  judge,  or  if  in  the  army  matters  were 
so  arranged  that  it  would  be  possible  for  the  drummer 
boy  to  be  in  command  at  Waterloo  whilst  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  was  playing  the  drum  in  Brussels,  we  should 
not  be  consoled  by  the  rcHcctioii  that  our  hangmen  were 
thereby  made  a  little  more  judicial-minded,  and  our 
drummers  more  responsible,  than  in  foreign  countries 
where  the  legal  and  military  professions  recognized  the 
advantages  of  division  of  labor. 

Under  such  conditions  no  statistics  as  to  the  graduation 
of  professional  ability  among  doctors  are  available.  As- 
suming that  doctors  are  normal  men  and  not  magicians 
(and  it  is  unfortunately  very  hard  to  persuade  people  to 
admit  so  mucli  and  thereby  destroy  the  romance  of  doc- 
toring) we  may  guess  that  the  medical  profession,  like 
the  other  professions,  consists  of  a  small  percentage  of 
highly  gifted  persons  at  one  end,  and  a  small  percentage 
of  altogether  disastrous  duffers  at  the  other.  Between 
these  extremes  comes  the  main  body  of  doctors  (also,  of 
course,  with  a  weak  and  a  strong  end)  who  can  be  trusted 
to  work  under  regulations  with  more  or  less  aid  from 
above  according  to  the  gravity  of  the  case.  Or,  to  put  it 
in  terms  of  the  cases,  there  are  cases  that  present  no 
difficulties,  and  can  be  dealt  with  by  a  nurse  or  student 
at  one  end  of  the  scale,  and  cases  that  require  watching 
and  handling  by  the  very  highest  existing  skill  at  the 
other ;  whilst  between  come  the  great  mass  of  cases  which 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixxix 

need  visits  from  the  doctor  of  ordinary  ability  and  from 
the  chiefs  of  the  profession  in  the  proportion  of,  say, 
seven  to  none,  seven  to  one,  three  to  one,  one  to  one,  or, 
for  a  day  or  two,  none  to  one.  Such  a  service  is  organ- 
ized at  present  only  in  hospitals ;  tliough  in  large  towns 
the  practice  of  calling  in  the  consultant  acts,  to  some  ex- 
tent, as  a  substitute  for  it.  But  in  the  latter  case  it  is 
quite  unregulated  except  by  professional  etiquet,  which, 
as  we  have  seen,  has  for  its  object,  not  the  health  of  the 
patient  or  of  the  community  at  large,  but  the  protection 
of  the  dcx-tor's  livelihood  and  the  concealment  of  his 
errors.  And  as  the  consultant  is  an  expensive  luxury,  he 
is  a  last  resource  rather,  as  he  should  be,  than  a  matter  of 
course,  in  all  cases  where  the  general  practitioner  is  not 
equal  to  the  occasion :  a  predicament  in  which  a  very 
capable  man  may  find  himself  at  any  time  through  the 
cropping  up  of  a  case  of  whicli  he  lias  had  no  clinical 
experience. 

Th€  Social  Solution  of  the  JMedical 

Problem 

The  social  solution  of  the  medical  problem,  then,  de- 
pends on  that  large,  slowly  advancing,  pettishly  resisted 
integration  of  society  called  generally  Socialism.  Until 
the  medical  profession  becomes  a  body  of  men  trained 
and  paid  by  the  comitry  to  keep  the  comitry  in  health  it 
will  remain  what  it  is  at  present :  a  conspiracy  to  exploit 
popular  credulity  and  human  suffering.  Already  our 
M.O.H.s  (Medical  Officers  of  Health)  are  in  the  new 
position :  what  is  lacking  is  appreciation  of  the  change, 
not  only  by  the  public  but  by  the  private  doctors.  For, 
as  we  have  seen,  when  one  of  the  first-rate  posts  becomes 
vacant  in  one  of  the  great  cities,  and  all  the  leading 
M.O.H.s  compete  for  it,  they  must  appeal  to  the  good 
health  of  the  cities  of  which  they  have  been  in  charge, 


Ixxx  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

and  not  to  the  size  of  the  ineoines  the  local  private  doc- 
tors arc  making  out  of  the  ill-health  of  their  patients.  If 
a  competitor  can  prove  that  he  has  utterly  ruined  every 
sort  of  medical  private  practice  in  a  large  city  except 
obstetric  practice  and  the  surgery  of  accidents,  his  claims 
arc  irresistible;  and  this  is  the  ideal  at  which  every 
M.O.H.  should  aim.  But  the  profession  at  large  should 
none  the  less  welcome  him  and  set  its  house  in  order  for 
the  social  change  which  will  finally  he  its  own  salvation. 
For  the  M.O.H.  as  we  know  him  is  only  the  beginning 
of  that  army  of  Public  Hygiene  which  will  jiresently  take 
the  place  in  general  interest  and  honor  now  occupied  by 
our  military  and  naval  forces.  It  is  silly  that  an  Eng- 
lishman should  be  more  afraid  of  a  Germai^  soldier  than 
of  a  British  disease  germ,  and  should  clamor  for  more 
barracks  in  the  same  newspaj)ers  that  protest  against 
more  school  clinics,  and  cry  out  that  if  the  State  fights 
disease  for  us  it  makes  us  pauj)ers,  though  they  never 
say  that  if  the  State  fights  the  Germans  for  us  it  makes 
us  cowards.  Fortunately,  when  a  habit  of  tiiought  is  silly 
it  only  needs  steady  treatment  by  ridicule  from  sensible 
and  witty  people  to  be  put  out  of  countenance  and  per- 
ish. Every  year  sees  an  increase  in  the  number  of  per- 
sons employed  in  the  Public  He.ilth  Service,  who  would 
formerly  have  been  mere  adventurers  in  the  Private  Ill- 
ness Service.  To  put  it  another  way,  a  host  of  men  and 
women  who  have  now  a  strong  incentive  to  be  mischiev- 
ous and  even  murderous  rogues  will  have  a  much  strong- 
er, because  a  much  honester,  incentive  to  be  not  only  good 
citizens  but  active  benefactors  to  the  community.  And 
they  will  have  no  anxiety  whatever  about  their  incomes. 

The  Future  of  Private  Practice 

It  must  not  be  hastily  concluded  that  this  involves  the 
extinction  of  the  private  practitioner.     \Vliat  it  will  really 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixxxi 

mean  for  him  is  release  from  his  present  degrading  and 
scientifieally  C()rriij)ting  slavery  to  his  patients.  As  I 
liave  already  shewn,  the  doetor  who  has  to  live  by  pleas- 
ing his  patients  in  competition  with  everybody  who  has 
walked  the  hospitals,  scraped  through  the  examinations, 
and  bought  a  brass  plate,  soon  finds  himself  prescribing 
water  to  teetotallers  and  brandy  or  champagne  jelly  to 
drunkards;  beefsteaks  and  stout  in  one  house,  and  "  uric 
acid  free"  vegetarian  diet  over  the  way;  shut  windows, 
big  fires,  and  heavy  overcoats  to  old  Colonels,  and  open 
air  and  as  much  nakedness  as  is  compatible  with  decency 
to  young  faddists,  never  once  daring  to  say  either  "  I 
dont  know,"  or  "  I  dont  agree."  For  the  strength  of  the 
doctor's,  as  of  every  other  man's  position  when  the  evo- 
lution of  social  organization  at  last  reaches  his  profession, 
will  be  that  he  will  always  have  o])en  to  him  the  alterna- 
tive of  j)ublic  employment  when  the  private  employer  be- 
comes too  tyrannous.  And  let  no  one  suppose  that  the 
words  doctor  and  patient  can  disguise  from  the  parties 
the  fact  that  they  are  employer  and  employee.  No  doubt 
doctors  who  are  in  great  demand  can  be  as  high-handed 
and  independent  as  employees  are  in  all  classes  when  a 
dearth  in  their  labor  market  makes  them  indispensable; 
but  the  average  doctor  is  not  in  this  position :  he  is  strug- 
gling for  life  in  an  overcrowded  profession,  and  knows 
well  that  "  a  good  bedside  manner  "  will  carry  him  to 
solvency  through  a  morass  of  illness,  whilst  the  least  at- 
tempt at  plain  dealing  with  people  who  are  eating  too 
much,  or  drinking  too  much,  or  frowsting  too  much  (to 
go  no  further  in  the  list  of  intemperances  that  make  up 
so  much  of  family  life)  would  soon  land  him  in  the  Bank- 
ruptcy Court. 

Private  practice,  thus  protected,  would  itself  protect 
individuals,  as  far  as  such  protection  is  possible,  against 
the  errors  and  superstitions  of  State  medicine,  which  are 
at  worst  no  worse  than   the  errors  and  superstitions   of 


Ixxxii  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

private  practice,  bcin^,  indeed,  all  derived  from  it.  Such 
monstrosities  as  vaccination  are,  as  we  have  seen,  found- 
ed, not  on  science,  but  on  half-crowns.  If  the  \'accina- 
tion  Acts,  instead  of  being  wholly  repealed  ;is  they  are 
already  half  repealed,  were  strengthened  by  compelling 
every  parent  to  have  his  child  vaccinated  by  a  public  ofl5- 
cer  whose  salary  was  completely  independent  of  the  num- 
ber of  vaccinations  j)erfornu(l  by  him,  and  for  whom 
there  was  j)lenty  of  alternative  public  healtii  work  wait- 
ing, vaccination  would  be  dead  in  two  years,  as  the  vacci- 
nator wt)uld  not  only  not  gain  by  it,  but  would  lose  credit 
through  the  depressing  etfects  on  the  vital  statistics  of 
his  district  of  the  illness  and  deaths  it  causes,  whilst  it 
would  take  from  him  all  the  credit  of  that  freedom  from 
smalljMJX  which  is  the  result  of  good  sanitary  administra- 
tion and  vigilant  prevention  of  infection.  Such  absurd 
panic  scandals  as  that  of  the  last  London  epidemic,  where 
a  fee  of  half-a-crown  per  re-vaccination  produced  raids 
on  houses  during  the  absence  of  parents,  and  the  forcible 
seizure  and  re-vaccination  of  cliildren  left  to  answer  the 
door,  can  be  prevented  simply  by  abolishing  the  half- 
crown  and  all  similar  follies,  paying,  not  for  this  or  that 
ceremony  of  witchcraft,  but  for  iiniiuinity  from  disease, 
and  paying,  too,  in  a  rational  way.  The  officer  with  a 
fixed  salary  saves  himself  trouble  by  doing  his  business 
with  the  least  possible  interference  with  the  private  citi- 
zen. The  man  paid  by  the  job  loses  money  by  not  forc- 
ing his  job  on  the  public  as  often  as  possible  without  ref- 
erence to  its  results. 

The  Teclinical  Problem 

As  to  any  technical  medical  problem  specially  involved, 
there  is  none.  If  there  were,  I  should  not  be  competent 
to  deal  with  it,  as  I  am  not  a  technical  expert  in  medicine: 
I  deal  with  the  subject  as  an  economist,  a  politician,  and 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixxxiii 

a  citizen  exercising  my  common  sense.  Everything  that 
I  have  said  applies  equally  to  all  the  medical  techniques, 
and  will  hold  good  wiiether  public  hygiene  be  based  on 
the  poetic  fancies  of  Christian  Science,  the  tribal  super- 
stitions of  the  druggist  and  the  vivisector,  or  the  best  we 
can  make  of  our  real  knowledge.  But  I  may  remind 
those  who  confusedly  imagine  that  the  medical  problem 
is  also  the  scientific  problem,  that  all  problems  are  finally 
scientific  ])roblems.  The  notion  that  theraj)eutics  or 
hygiene  or  surgery  is  any  more  or  less  scientific  than 
making  or  cleaning  boots  is  entertained  only  by  people 
to  whom  a  man  of  science  is  still  a  magician  who  can  cure 
diseases,  transmute  metals,  and  enable  us  to  live  for  ever. 
It  may  still  be  necessary  for  some  time  to  come  to  prac- 
tise on  popular  credulity,  popular  love  and  dread  of  the 
marvellous,  and  popular  idolatry,  to  induei-  the  })oor  to 
comply  with  the  sanitary  regulations  they  are  too  ip^io- 
rant  to  understand.  As  I  have  elsewhere  confessed,  I 
have  myself  been  responsible  for  ridiculous  incantations 
with  burning  sulphur,  experimentally  jiroved  to  be  quite 
useless,  because  poor  people  are  convinced,  by  the  mysti- 
cal air  of  the  burning  and  the  horrible  smell,  that  it  exor- 
cises the  demons  of  smallpox  and  scarlet  fever  and 
makes  it  safe  for  them  to  return  to  their  houses.  To  as- 
sure them  that  the  real  secret  is  sunshine  and  soap  is  only 
to  convince  them  that  you  do  not  care  whether  they  live 
or  die,  and  wish  to  save  money  at  their  expense.  So  you 
perform  the  incantation :  and  back  they  go  to  their 
houses,  satisfied.  A  religious  ceremony — a  poetic  bless- 
ing of  the  threshold,  for  instance — would  be  much  better; 
but  unfortunately  our  religion  is  weak  on  the  sanitary 
side.  One  of  the  worst  misfortunes  of  Christendom  was 
that  reaction  against  the  voluptuous  bathing  of  the  im- 
perial Romans  which  made  dirty  habits  a  part  of  Chris- 
tian piety,  and  in  some  unlucky  places  (the  Sandwich 
Islands  for  example)  made  the  introduction  of  Christian- 


Ixxxiv         The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

ity  also  tlie  introduction  of  disease,  beeause  the  formula- 
tors  of  the  sujierseded  native  religion,  like  Mahomet,  had 
been  enlin^htened  enough  to  introduce  as  religious  duties 
such  sanitary  measures  as  ablution  and  the  most  careful 
and  reverent  treatment  of  everything  cast  off  by  the  hu- 
man body,  even  to  nail  clippings  and  hairs ;  and  our  mis- 
sionaries thoughtlessly  discredited  this  godly  doctrine 
without  supplying  its  place,  which  was  ])rom))tly  taken 
by  laziness  and  neglect.  If  the  ))riests  of  Ireland  could 
only  be  persuaded  to  teach  their  tlocks  that  it  is  a  deadly 
insult  to  the  lilessed  \'irgin  to  ])lace  her  image  in  a  cot- 
tage that  is  not  kept  up  to  that  high  standard  of  Sunday 
cleanliness  to  which  all  her  worshippers  must  believe  she 
is  accustomed,  and  to  represent  her  as  being  especially 
particular  about  stables  because  her  son  was  born  in  one, 
they  might  do  more  in  one  year  tiian  all  tlie  Sanitary  In- 
spectors in  Ireland  could  do  in  twenty;  and  tiiey  could 
liardly  doubt  tliat  Our  I.ady  would  be  delighted.  Per- 
ha])s  they  do  nowadays;  for  Ireland  is  certainly  a  trans- 
figured country  since  my  youth  as  far  as  clean  faces  and 
pinafores  can  transfigure  it.  In  England,  where  so  many 
of  the  inhabitants  are  too  gross  to  believe  in  poetic  faiths, 
too  respectable  to  tolerate  the  notion  that  the  stable  at 
Bethany  was  a  connnon  peasant  farmer's  stable  instead 
of  a  first-rate  racing  one,  and  too  savage  to  believe  that 
anything  can  really  cast  out  the  devil  of  disease  unless  it 
be  some  terrifying  hoodoo  of  tortures  and  stinks,  the 
M.O.H.  will  no  doubt  for  a  long  time  to  come  have  to 
preach  to  fools  according  to  their  folly,  promising  mira- 
cles, and  threatening  hideous  personal  consequences  of 
neglect  of  by-laws  and  the  like;  therefore  it  will  be  im- 
portant that  every  M.O.H.  shall  have,  with  his  (or  her) 
other  qualifications,  a  sense  of  humor,  lest  (he  or  she) 
should  come  at  last  to  believe  all  the  nonsense  that  must 
needs  be  talked.  But  he  must,  in  his  capacity  of  an  ex- 
pert advising  the  authorities,  keep  the  government  itself 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixxxv 

free  of  superstition.  If  Itali,-in  peasants  are  so  ignorant 
tliat  the  Church  can  get  no  hold  of  them  except  by  mira- 
cles, wh}",  miracles  there  must  be.  The  blood  of  St. 
Januarius  must  liquefy  whether  the  Saint  is  in  the  humor 
or  not.  To  trick  a  heathen  into  being  a  dutiful  Christian 
is  no  worse  than  to  trick  a  whitewasher  into  trusting  him- 
self in  a  room  where  a  smallpox  patient  has  lain,  by  pre- 
tending to  exorcise  the  disease  with  burning  sulphur. 
But  woe  to  the  Church  if  in  deceiving  the  peasant  it  also 
deceives  itself;  for  then  the  Cluirch  is  lost,  and  the  peas- 
ant too,  unless  he  revolt  against  it.  Unless  the  Church 
works  the  pretended  miracle  painfully  against  the  grain, 
and  is  continually  urged  by  its  dislike  of  the  imposture 
to  strive  to  make  the  peasant  susceptible  to  the  true  rea- 
sons for  behaving  well,  the  Church  will  become  an  in- 
strument of  his  corruption  and  an  exploiter  of  his  igno- 
rance, and  will  find  itself  launched  upon  that  persecution 
of  scientific  truth  of  which  all  priestlioods  are  accused — 
and  none  with  more  justice  than  the  scientific  priesthood. 
And  here  we  come  to  tiie  danger  that  terrifies  so  many 
of  us :  the  danger  of  having  a  hygienic  orthodox}'  imposed 
on  us.  But  we  must  face  that:  in  such  crowded  and  pov- 
erty ridden  civilizations  as  ours  any  orthodoxy  is  better 
than  laisser-faire.  If  our  jjojnilation  ever  comes  to  con- 
sist exclusively  of  well-to-do,  highly  cultivated,  and  thor- 
oughly instructed  free  persons  in  a  position  to  take  care 
of  themselves^  no  doubt  they  will  make  short  work  of  a 
good  deal  of  official  regulation  that  is  now  of  life-and- 
death  necessity  to  us;  but  under  existing  circumstances, 
I  repeat,  almost  any  sort  of  attention  that  democracy  will 
stand  is  better  than  neglect.  Attention  and  activity  lead 
to  mistakes  as  well  as  to  successes;  but  a  life  spent  in 
making  mistakes  is  not  only  more  honorable  but  more 
useful  than  a  life  spent  doing  nothing.  The  one  lesson 
that  comes  out  of  all  our  theorizing  and  experimenting  is 
that  there  is  only  one  really  scientific  progressive  method ; 


Ixxxvi         The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

and  that  is  tlie  inethod  of  trial  and  error.  If  you  come 
to  that,  what  is  laisstr-fairc  but  an  orthodoxy?  the  most 
tyrannous  and  disastrous  of  all  the  orthodoxies,  since  it 
forbids  vou  even  to  learn. 


The  Latest  Theories 

Medical  theories  are  so  nnieh  a  matter  of  fashion,  and 
the  most  fertile  of  them  are  modified  so  rapidly  by  medi- 
cal practice  and  bioloj^ical  research,  which  are  interna- 
tional activities,  that  the  play  which  furnishes  the  pre- 
text for  this  preface  is  already  slightly  outmoded,  though 
I  believe  it  m.ay  be  taken  as  a  faithful  record  for  the 
year  (HU)t5)  in  which  it  was  begim.  I  m«st  not  expose 
any  jjrofessional  man  to  ruin  by  connecting  his  name 
with  the  entire  freedom  of  criticism  which  I,  as  a  layman, 
enjoy;  but  it  will  be  evident  to  all  experts  that  my  play 
could  not  have  been  written  but  for  the  work  done  by  Sir 
Almroth  Wright  in  the  theory  and  practice  of  securing 
immunization  from  bacterial  diseases  by  the  inoculation 
of  "  vaccines  "  made  of  their  own  bacteria:  a  practice  in- 
correctly called  vaccinetherapy  (there  is  nothing  vaccine 
about  it)  apparently  because  it  is  what  vaccination  ought 
to  be  and  is  not.  L'ntil  Sir  Almroth  Wright,  following 
up  one  of  Metchnikoff's  most  suggestive  biological  ro- 
mances, discovered  tluit  the  white  corpuscles  or  phago- 
cytes which  attack  and  devour  disease  germs  for  us  do 
their  work  only  Mhen  we  butter  the  disease  germs  appe- 
tizingly  for  them  with  a  natural  sauce  which  Sir  Almroth 
named  opsonin,  and  that  our  production  of  this  condiment 
continually  rises  and  falls  rhythmically  from  negligibil- 
ity to  the  highest  efficiency,  nobody  had  been  able  even 
to  conjecture  why  the  various  serums  that  were  from 
time  to  time  introduced  as  having  effected  marvellous 
cures,  presently  made  such  direful  havoc  of  some  unfor- 
tunate patient  that  they  had  to  be  dropped  hastily.     The 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixxxvii 

quantity  of  sturdy  lyinp  that  was  necessary  to  save  the 
credit  of  inoculation  in  those  days  was  })rodigious;  and 
had  it  not  been  for  the  devotion  shewn  by  the  military 
autiiorities  throughout  Europe,  who  would  order  the  en- 
tire disa])|)earance  of  some  disease  from  their  armies,  and 
bring  it  about  by  the  simple  plan  of  changing  the  name 
under  which  the  cases  were  rejiorted,  or  for  our  own 
Metropolitan  Asylums  Board,  which  carefully  suppressed 
all  the  mi'dieal  rej)orts  that  revealed  the  sometimes  (juile 
appalling  effects  of  epidemics  of  revaccination,  there  is 
no  saying  what  popular  reaction  might  not  have  taken 
place  against  the  whole  immunization  movement  in  thera- 
peutics. 

The  situation  was  saved  when  Sir  Almroth  Wright 
pointed  out  that  if  you  inoculated  a  patient  with  patho- 
genic germs  at  a  moment  when  his  powers  of  cooking 
them  for  consumption  by  the  phagocytes  was  receding 
to  its  lowest  point,  you  would  certainly  make  him  a  good 
deal  worse  and  perhaps  kill  him,  whereas  if  you  made 
precisely  the  same  inoculation  when  the  cooking  power 
was  rising  to  one  of  its  periodical  climaxes,  you  would 
stimulate  it  to  still  further  exertioiLs  and  jiroduee  just 
the  oj)posite  result.  And  he  invented  a  techni(jue  for 
ascertaining  in  which  phase  the  patient  happened  to  be 
at  any  given  moment.  The  dramatic  possibilities  of  this 
discovery  and  invention  will  be  found  in  my  play.  But 
it  is  one  thing  to  invent  a  technique:  it  is  quite  another 
to  persuade  the  medical  profession  to  acquire  it.  Our 
general  practitioners,  I  gather,  simply  declined  to  ac- 
quire it,  being  mostly  unable  to  afford  either  the  acquisi- 
tion or  the  practice  of  it  when  acquired.  Something 
simple,  cheap,  and  ready  at  all  times  for  all  comers,  is, 
as  I  have  shewn,  the  only  thing  that  is  economically  pos- 
sible in  general  practice,  whatever  may  be  the  case  in 
Sir  Almroth's  famous  laboratory  in  St.  Mary's  Hos- 
pital.     It    would    have    become    necessary    to    denounce 


Ixxxviii       The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

opsonin  in  the  trade  papers  as  a  fad  and  Sir  Almroth  as 
a  dangerous  man  if  liis  practice  in  tlie  laboratory  had  not 
led  him  to  the  conclusion  that  the  customary  inoculations 
were  very  nnicli  too  jinwerful,  and  that  a  coini).iratively 
infinitesimal  dose  would  not  ])reeipitMte  a  ne<;ative  phase 
of  cooking  activity,  and  mi^ht  induce  a  positive  one. 
And  thus  it  happens  tliat  the  refusal  of  our  general 
practitioners  to  acquire  the  new  technique  is  no  longer 
quite  so  dangerous  in  })racticc  as  it  was  when  The  Doc- 
tor's Dilemma  was  written:  nay,  tliat  Sir  Ralph  Bloom- 
field  Bonington's  way  of  administering  inoculations  as  if 
they  were  sj)oonfuls  of  squills  may  siuuftimes  work 
fairly  well.  For  all  that,  I  Hud  Sir  Almroth  Wright,  on 
the  '2,Srd  May,  1  [)!(.»,  warning  the  Royal  Soeiety  of  Medi- 
cine that  "the  clinician  has  not  yet  been  prevailed  upon 
to  reconsider  his  positon,"  which  means  that  the  general 
jiractitioner  ("  the  doctor,"  as  he  is  called  in  our  homes) 
is  going  on  just  as  he  did  before,  and  could  not  afford  to 
learn  or  practice  a  new  teehnitjue  even  if  he  had  ever 
licard  of  it.  To  the  patient  who  does  not  know  about  it 
he  will  say  nothing.  To  the  patient  who  does,  he  will 
ridicule  it,  and  disparage  Sir  Almroth.  What  else  can  he 
do,  except  confess  his  ignorance  and  starve? 

But  now  please  observe  how  "  the  whirligig  of  time 
brings  its  revenges."  This  latest  discovery  of  the  reme- 
dial virtue  of  a  very,  very  tiny  hair  of  the  dog  that  bit 
you  reminds  us,  not  only  of  Arndt's  law  of  protoplasmic 
reaction  to  stimuli,  according  to  which  weak  and  strong 
stimuli  provoke  opposite  reactions,  but  of  Hahnemann's 
homeopathy,  which  was  founded  on  the  fact  alleged  by 
Hahnemann  that  drugs  which  produce  certain  symptoms 
when  taken  in  ordinary  jierceptible  quantities,  will,  when 
taken  in  inrinitcsimally  small  quantities,  provoke  just 
the  op])osite  symptoms;  so  that  the  drug  that  gives  you 
a  headache  will  also  cure  a  headache  if  you  take  little 
enough  of  it.     I  have  already  explained  that  the  savage 


Preface  on  Doctors  Ixxxix 

opposition  whicli  liomeopatliy  encountered  from  tlie  med- 
ical profession  was  not  a  scientific  opposition ;  for  nobody 
seems  to  deny  that  some  drugs  act  in  the  alleged  manner. 
It  was  opposed  simj^ly  because  doctors  and  apothecaries 
lived  by  selling  bottles  and  boxes  of  doctor's  stuff  to  be 
taken  in  spoonfuls  or  in  pellets  as  large  as  peas;  and  peo- 
ple would  not  pay  as  much  for  drops  and  globules  no 
bigger  than  pins'  heads.  Nowadays,  however,  the  more 
cultivated  folk  are  beginning  to  be  so  suspicious  of  drugs, 
and  the  incorrigibly  superstitious  people  so  profusely 
supplied  with  patent  medicines  (the  medical  advice  to 
take  them  being  wrajiped  round  the  bottle  and  thrown  in 
for  nothing)  that  homeopathy  has  become  a  way  of  re- 
habilitating the  trade  of  prescription  comjiounding,  and 
is  consequently  coming  into  professional  credit.  At 
which  point  the  theory  of  opsonins  comes  very  oppor- 
tunely to  shake  hands  with  it. 

Add  to  the  newly  triumphant  horaeopathist  and  the 
opsonist  that  other  remarkable  innovator,  the  Swedish 
masseur,  who  does  not  theorize  about  you.  but  probes  you 
all  over  with  his  powerful  thumbs  until  he  finds  out  your 
sore  spots  and  rubs  them  away,  besides  cheating  you  into 
a  little  wholesome  exercise ;  and  you  have  nearly  everj'- 
thing  in  medical  practice  to-day  that  is  not  flat  witchcraft 
or  pure  commercial  exploitation  of  human  credulity  and 
fear  of  death.  Add  to  them  a  good  deal  of  vegetarian 
.'ind  teetotal  controversy  raging  round  a  clamor  for  scien- 
tific eating  and  drinking,  and  resulting  in  little  so  far 
except  calling  digestion  Metabolism  and  dividing  the 
public  between  the  eminent  doctor  who  tells  us  that  we 
do  not  eat  enough  fish,  and  his  equally  eminent  colleague 
who  warns  us  that  a  fish  diet  must  end  in  leprosy,  and 
you  have  all  that  opposes  with  any  sort  of  countenance 
the  rise  of  Christian  Science  with  its  cathedrals  and  con- 
gregations and  zealots  and  miracles  and  cures :  all  very 
silly,  no  doubt,  but  sane  and  sensible,  poetic  and  hope- 


xc  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

ful,  compared  to  tlie  pseudo  science  of  the  commercial 
general  practitioner,  who  foolishly  clamors  for  the  prose- 
cution and  even  the  execution  of  the  Christian  Scientists 
when  their  patients  die.  forgetting  the  long  death  roll  of 
his  own  patients. 

By  the  time  this  preface  is  in  print  the  kaleidoscope 
may  have  had  another  shake ;  and  opsonin  may  have  gone 
the  way  of  })hlogiston  at  the  hands  of  its  own  restless 
discoverer.  I  will  not  say  that  Hahnemann  may  have 
gone  the  way  of  Di.ifoirus;  for  Diafoirus  we  have  always 
with  us.  But  we  shall  still  pick  up  all  our  knowledge  in 
pursuit  of  some  Will  o'  the  ^^'is{)  or  other.  What  is 
called  science  has  always  pursued  the  Elixir  of  Life  and 
the  Philosopher's  Stone,  and  is  just  as  bu%y  after  them 
to-day  as  ever  it  was  in  the  days  of  Paracelsus.  We  call 
them  by  different  names:  Inununization  or  Radiology  or 
wliat  not;  but  the  dreams  which  lure  us  into  the  adven- 
tures from  which  we  learn  are  always  at  bottom  the  same. 
Science  becomes  dangerous  only  when  it  imagines  that  it 
has  reached  its  goal,  \\nmt  is  wrong  with  priests  and 
popes  is  that  instead  of  being  apostles  and  saints,  they 
are  nothing  but  empirics  who  say  "  I  know  "  instead  of 
"  I  am  learning,"  and  pray  for  credulity  and  inertia  as 
wise  men  pray  for  scepticism  and  activity.  Such  abomi- 
nations as  tlie  Inquisition  and  the  Vaccination  Acts  are 
possible  only  in  the  famine  years  of  the  soul,  when  the 
great  vital  dogmas  of  honor,  liberty,  courage,  the  kinship 
of  all  life,  faith  that  the  unknown  is  greater  than  the 
known  and  is  only  the  As  Yet  Unkno\vn,  and  resolution 
to  rind  a  manly  highway  to  it,  have  been  forgotten  in  a 
paroxysm  of  littleness  and  terror  in  which  nothing  is  ac- 
tive except  concupiscence  and  the  fear  of  death,  playing 
on  which  any  trader  can  rilch  a  fortune,  any  blackguard 
gratify  his  cruelty,  and  any  tyrant  make  us  his  slaves. 

Lest  this  should  seem  too  rhetorical  a  conclusion  for 
our  professional  men  of  science,  who  are  mostly  trained 


Preface  on  Doctors  xci 

not  to  believe  anything  unless  it  is  worded  in  the  jargon 
of  those  writers  who,  because  they  never  really  under- 
stand what  they  are  trying  to  say,  cannot  find  familiar 
words  for  it,  and  are  therefore  compelled  to  invent  a  new 
language  of  nonsense  for  every  book  they  write,  let  me 
sum  up  my  conclusions  as  dryly  as  is  consistent  with  ac- 
curate thought  and  live  conviction. 

1.  Nothing  is  more  dangerous  than  a  poor  doctor:  not 
even  a  poor  employer  or  a  poor  landlord. 

2.  Of  all  the  anti-social  vested  interests  the  worst  is 
the  vested  interest  in  ill-health. 

3.  Remember  that  an  illness  is  a  misdemeanor;  and 
treat  the  doctor  as  an  accessory  unless  he  notifies  every 
case  to  the  Public  Health  authority. 

l.  Treat  every  death  as  a  possible  and  under  our  pres- 
ent system  a  probable  murder,  by  making  it  the  subject 
of  a  reasonably  conducted  inquest;  and  execute  the  doc- 
tor, if  necessary,  as  a  doctor,  by  striking  him  off  the  reg- 
ister. 

5.  Make  up  your  mind  how  many  doctors  the  com- 
munity needs  to  keep  it  well.  Do  not  register  more  or 
less  than  this  number;  and  let  registration  constitute  the 
doctor  a  civil  servant  with  a  dignified  living  wage  paid 
out  of  public  funds. 

6.  Municipalize  Harley  Street. 

7.  Treat  the  private  operator  exactly  as  you  would 
treat  a  private  executioner. 

8.  Treat  persons  who  profess  to  be  able  to  cure  disease 
as  you  treat  fortune  tellers. 

9.  Keep  the  public  carefully  informed,  by  special  sta- 
tistics and  announcements  of  individual  cases,  of  all  ill- 
nesses of  doctors  or  in  their  families. 

10.  Make  it  compulsory  for  a  doctor  using  a  brass 
])late  to  have  inscribed  on  it,  in  addition  to  the  letters  in- 
dicating his  qualifications,  the  words  "  Remember  that  I 
too  am  mortal." 


xcii  The  Doctor's  Dilemma 

11.  In  legislation  and  social  organization,  proceed  on 
the  principle  that  invalids,  meaning  persons  who  cannot 
keep  themselves  alive  by  their  own  activities,  cannot,  be- 
yond reason,  expect  to  be  kept  alivi-  by  the  activity  of 
otlurs.  There  is  a  point  at  which  the  most  energetic 
policeman  or  doctor,  when  called  upon  to  deal  witli  an 
apparently  drowned  person,  gives  up  artificial  respira- 
tion, although  it  is  never  possible  to  declare  with  cer- 
tainty, at  any  point  short  of  decomposition,  that  another 
five  minutes  of  the  exercise  would  not  effect  resuseitation. 
The  thiory  that  every  individual  alive  is  of  infinite  value 
is  legislatively  impracticable.  No  doubt  the  higlur  the 
life  we  secure  to  the  individual  by  wise  social  organiza- 
tion, the  greater  his  value  is  to  the  conmiunity,  and  the 
more  pains  wc  shall  take  to  j)ull  him  through  any  tempo- 
rary danger  or  disablement.  But  the  man  who  costs  more 
than  he  is  worth  is  doomed  by  sound  hygiene  as  inexor- 
ably as  by  sound  economies. 

12.  Do  not  try  to  live  for  ever.     You  will  not  succeed. 
KS.   Use  your  health,  even  to  the  point  of  wearing  it 

out.     That  is  what  it  is  for.     Spend  all  you  have  before 
you  die;  and  do  not  outlive  yourself. 

\l.  Take  the  utmost  care  to  get  well  born  and  well 
brought  up.  This  means  that  your  mother  must  liave  a 
good  doctor.  Be  careful  to  go  to  a  school  where  there  is 
wliat  thev  call  a  school  clinic,  where  your  nutrition  and 
teeth  and  eyesight  and  other  matters  of  importance  to' 
you  will  be  attended  to.  Be  particularly  careful  to  have 
all  this  done  at  the  expense  of  the  nation,  as  otherwise  it 
will  not  be  done  at  all,  the  chances  being  about  forty  to 
one  against  your  being  able  to  pay  for  it  directly  your- 
self, even  if  you  know  how  to  set  about  it.  Otherwise 
you  will  be  what  most  people  are  at  present:  an  unsound 
citizen  of  an  unsound  nation,  without  sense  enough  to  be 
ashamed  or  unhappy  about  it. 


THE    DOCTORS    DILEMMA 
XVI 

1906 


I  am  grateful  to  Hesba  Stretton,  thcauthoress 
of  "Jessica's  First  Prayer,"  for  permission  to 
use  the  title  of  one  of  her  stories  for  this  play. 


ACT    I 

On  the  15th  June  1903,  in  the  early  forenoon,  a  medi- 
cal student,  surname  Redpenny,  Christian  name  unknown 
and  of  no  importance,  sits  at  work  in  a  doctor's  consult- 
ing-room. He  devils  for  the  doctor  by  answering  his  let- 
ters, acting  as  his  domestic  laboratory  assistant,  and 
making  himself  indispensable  generally,  in  return  for  un- 
specified advantages  involved  by  intimate  intercourse 
with  a  leader  of  his  profession,  and  amounting  to  an  in- 
formal apprenticeship  and  a  temporary  affiliation.  Red- 
penny  is  not  proud,  and  will  do  anything  he  is  asked 
iviihout  reservation  of  his  personal  dignity  if  he  is  asked 
in  a  fellow-creaturely  way.  He  is  a  wide-open-eyed, 
ready,  credulous,  friendly,  hasty  youth,  with  his  hair  and 
clothes  in  reluctant  transition  from  the  untidy  boy  to  the 
tidy   doctor. 

Redpenny  is  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  an  old 
servijig-womaii  who  has  never  known  the  cares,  the  pre- 
occupations, the  responsibilities,  jealousies,  and  anxieties 
of  personal  beauty.  She  has  the  complexion  of  a  never- 
washed  ^ypsy,  incurable  by  any  detergent ;  and  she  has, 
not  a  resular  beard  and  moustaches ,  which  could  at  lea.st 
be  trimmed  and  waxed  into  a  masculine  presentableness, 
but  a  whole  crop  of  small  beards  and  moustaches,  mostly 
springing  from   moles  all  over  her  face.     She  carries  a 

3 


4  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  Act  I 

duster  and  toddles  about  meddlesomely,  spying  out  dust 
so  ddigently  that  whUst  she  is  flicking  off  one  speck  she 
is  already  looking  elsewhere  for  another.  In  conversa- 
tion she  has  the  same  trick,  hardly  ever  looking  at  the 
person  she  is  addressing  except  when  she  is  excited.  She 
has  only  one  manner,  and  that  is  the  manner  of  an  old 
family  nurse  to  a  child  just  after  it  has  learnt  to  walk. 
She  has  used  her  ugliness  to  secure  indulgences  unattain- 
able by  Cleopatra  or  Fair  Rosamund,  and  has  the  further 
great  advantage  over  them  that  age  increases  her  quali- 
fication instead  of  impairing  it.  Being  an  industrious, 
agreeable,  and  popular  old  soul,  she  is  a  walking  sermon 
on  the  vanity  of  feminine  prettiness.  Just  as  liedpenny 
has  no  discovered  Christian  name,  she  has  no  discovered 
surname,  and  is  known  throughout  the  doctors'  quarter 
betwe.n  CavendisJi  Square  and  the  Marylcbone  Road 
simply  as  Emmy. 

The  consulting-room  has  two  windows  looking  on 
Quivn  Anne  Street.  Between  the  two  is  a  marble-topped 
console,  with  haunched  gilt  legs  ending  in  spliinx  claws. 
The  huge  pier-glass  which  surmounts  it  is  mostly  dis- 
abled from  reflection  by  elaborate  painting  on  its  surface 
of  palms,  ferns,  lilies,  tulips,  and  sunflowers.  The  ad- 
joining wall  contains  the  fireplace,  with  two  arm-chairs 
before  it.  As  we  happen  to  face  the  corner  we  see  noth- 
ing of  the  other  two  walls.  On  the  right  of  the  fireplace, 
or  rather  on  the  right  of  any  person  facing  the  fireplace, 
is  the  door.  On  its  left  is  the  writing-table  at  which  Red- 
penny  sUs.  It  is  an  untidy  table  with  a  microscope,  sev- 
eral test  tubes,  and  a  spirit  lamp  standing  up  through  its 
litter  of  papers.  There  is  a  couch  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  at  right  angels  to  the  console,  and  parallel  to  the 
fiieplace.  A  chair  stands  between  the  couch  and  the  win- 
dowed wall.  The  windows  have  green  Venetian  blinds 
and  rep  curtains;  and  there  is  a  gasalierj  but  it  is  a  con- 
vert to  electric  lighting.     The  wall  paper  and  carpets  are 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  5 

mostly  green,  coeval  rvith  the  gasalier  and  the  Venetian 
blinds.  The  house,  in  fact,  tvas  so  well  furnished  in  the 
middle  of  the  XlXth  century  that  it  stands  unaltered  to 
this  day  and  is  still  quite  presentable. 

Emmy  [entering  and  immediately  beginfiing  to  dust  the 
couch]   Theres  a  lady  bothering  me  to  see  the  doctor. 

Reui'ENNY  [distracted  by  the  interruption}  Well,  she 
cant  sec  the  doctor.  Look  here:  whats  the  use  of  telling 
you  that  the  doctor  cant  take  any  new  patients,  when  the 
moment  a  kiiock  comes  to  the  door,  in  you  bounce  to  ask 
wliclhcr  he  can  see  somebody  ^ 

Emmy.  Who  asked  you  whether  he  could  see  some- 
body ?  , 

Redpexny.     You  did. 

Emmy.  I  said  theres  a  lady  bothering  me  to  see  the 
doctor.  That  isnt  asking.     Its  telling. 

Heupenny.  \V'c11,  is  the  lady  bothering  you  any  rea- 
son for  you  to  come  bothering  nwi  when  I'm  busy? 

Emmy.     Have  you  seen  the  papers.'' 

Redpenny.     No. 

Emmy.     Not  seen  the  birthday  honors  ? 

Redpenny  [beginning  to  swear]     \vhat  the — 

Emm\.      Now,  now,  ducky  ! 

Redpenny.  What  do  you  suppose  I  care  about  the 
birthday  honors?  Get  out  of  this  with  your  chattering. 
Dr  Ridgeon  will  be  down  before  I  have  these  letters 
ready.     Get  ant. 

Emmy.  Dr  Ridgeon  wont  never  be  down  any  more, 
young  man. 

She  detects  dust  on  the  console  and  is  down  on  it  im- 
mediately. 

Redpenny  [jtimping  up  and  following  her]     What? 

Emmy.  He's  been  made  a  knight.  Mind  you  dont  go 
Dr  Ridgeoning  hira  in  them  letters.  Sir  Colenso  Rid- 
geon is  to  be  his  name  now. 


6  The  Doctor's  Dilemma         Act  I 

Redpenny.     I'm  jolly  glad. 

Emmy.  I  never  was  so  taken  aback.  I  always  thought 
his  great  discoveries  was  fudge  (let  alone  the  mess  of 
them)  MJth  liis  drops  of  blood  and  tubes  full  of  Maltese 
fever  and  tlie  like.     Now  he'll  have  a  rare  laugh  at  me. 

Redi'exny.  Serve  you  right!  It  was  like  your  cheek 
to  talk  to  him  about  science.  [He  returns  to  his  table 
and  resumes  his  irriting]. 

Emmy.  Oh,  I  dont  think  much  of  science;  and  neither 
will  you  when  youve  lived  as  long  with  it  as  I  have. 
^^'hats  on  my  mind  is  answering  tlic  door.  Old  Sir  Pat- 
rick C'ulhn  has  been  here  already  and  left  first  congratu- 
lations— hadnt  time  to  come  up  on  his  way  to  the  hos- 
pital, but  was  determined  to  be  first — coming  back,  he 
said.  All  the  rest  will  be  here  too:  the  kiibcker  will  be 
going  all  day.  \\'hat  I'm  afraid  of  is  that  the  doctor '11 
want  a  footman  like  all  the  rest,  now  that  he's  Sir  Co- 
lenso.  Mind:  dont  you  go  putting  him  up  to  it,  ducky; 
for  he'll  never  have  any  comfort  with  anybody  but  me 
to  answer  the  door.  I  know  who  to  let  in  and  who  to 
keep  out.  And  that  reminds  me  of  the  poor  lady.  I 
think  he  ought  to  see  her.  She's  just  the  kind  that  puts 
him  in  a  good  temper.      [She  dusts  Redpenntf's  papers]. 

Redpenny.  I  tell  you  he  cant  see  anybody.  Do  go 
away,  Ennny.  How  can  I  work  with  you  dusting  all 
over  me  like  this? 

E.mmy.  I'm  not  hindering  you  working — if  you  call 
writing  letters  working.  There  goes  the  bell.  [She 
looks  out  of  the  tvindort],  A  doctor's  carriage.  Thats 
more  congratulations.  [She  is  going  out  when  Sir  Co- 
len-so  Ridgeon  enters^.  Have  you  finished  your  two 
eggs,  somiy  .^ 

RiDGEOx.     Yes. 

Emmy.     Have  you  put  on  your  clean  vest? 

Ridgeon.     Yes. 

Emmy.     Thats  my  ducky  diamond!     Now  keep  your- 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  7 

self  tidy  and  dont  go  messing  about  and  dirtying  your 
hands:  the  people  are  coming  to  congratulate  you.  [She 
goes  Sht^. 

Sir  Colenso  Ridgeon  is  a  man  of  fifty  who  has  never 
shaken  off  his  youth.  lie  has  the  off-handed  manner  and 
the  little  audacities  of  address  lehich  a  shy  and  sensitive 
man  acquires  in  breaking  himself  in  to  intercourse  with 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  His  face  is  a  good  deal 
lined;  his  movements  are  slower  than,  for  instance.  Red- 
penny's;  and  his  flaxen  hair  has  lost  its  lustre;  but  in 
figure  and  )nanner  he  is  more  the  young  man  than  the 
titled  physician.  Even  the  lines  in  his  face  are  those  of 
overwork  and  restless  scepticism,  perhaps  partly  of  curi- 
osity and  appetite,  rather  than  of  age.  Just  at  present 
the  announcement  of  his  knighthood  in  the  morning  pa- 
pers makes  him  specially  self-conscious,  and  consequently 
specially  off-hand  with  Red  penny. 

RiDGEOx.  Have  you  seen  tlie  papers?  Youll  have  to 
alter  the  name  in  the  letters  if  you  liavnt. 

Reupenny.  Emmy  has  just  told  me.  I'm  awfully 
glad.     I— 

n:Lv..t:ox.  Enough,  young  man,  enough.  You  will 
soon  get  accustomed  to  it. 

Redpenny.     They  ought  to  have  done  it  years  ago. 

RiDGEOX.  They  would  have;  only  they  couldnt  stand 
Emmy  opening  the  door,  I  daresay. 

Emmy  [at  the  door,  announcing]  Dr  Shoemaker.  [She 
withdraws]. 

A  middle-aged  gentleman,  well  dressed,  comes  in  with 
a  friendly  but  propitiatory  air,  not  quite  sure  of  his  re- 
ception. His  combination  of  soft  manners  and  responsive 
kindliness,  with  a  certain  unseizable  reserve  and  a  fami- 
liar yet  foreign  chiselling  of  feature,  reveal  the  Jew:  in 
this  instance  the  handsome  gentlemanly  Jew,  gone  a  little 
pigeon-breasted  and  stale  after  thirty,  as  handsome 
young  Jews  often  do,  but  still  decidedly  good-looking. 


8  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  Act  I 

The  Gentleman.  Do  you  remember  me?  Scliutz- 
macher.  University  College  school  aiid  Belsizc  Avenue. 
Loony  Schutzmacher,  you  know. 

RiDGEON.  What!  Loony!  [He  shakes  hands  cor- 
dially]. \\Tiy,  man,  I  thought  you  were  dead  ](vil!;  ago. 
Sit  down.  \Srhji'::))iarhrr  sits  un  the  couch:  liidgeon 
on  the  cJiair  bctrvcrn  it  and  tlic  ivindow\.  Where  have 
you  been  these  thirty  years? 

Schutzmacher.  In  general  practice,  until  a  few 
months  ago.     I've  retired. 

RioGEOx.  Well  done.  Loony!  I  wish  /  could  aflford 
to  retire.     Was  your  practice  in  London? 

Scni'TZMACHEH.        No. 

RiDGEoN.      Fashionable  co.ist  practice,  I  suppose. 

Schutzmacher.  How  could  J  afford  to»buy  a  fash- 
ionable practice?  I  hadnt  a  rap.  I  set  up  in  a  manufac- 
turing town  in  the  midlands  in  a  little  surgery  at  ten 
shillings  a  week. 

Ridgeon.     And  made  your  fortune? 

Schutzmacher.  Well.  I'm  pretty  comfortable.  I 
have  a  place  in  Hertfordshire  besides  our  flat  in  toAvn. 
If  you  ever  want  a  quiet  Saturday  to  Monday,  I'll  take 
you  down  in  my  motor  at  an  hour's  notice. 

Riugeon.  Just  rolling  in  money !  I  -vvish  you  rich 
g.p.'s  would  teach  me  how  to  make  some.  Whats  the 
secret  of  it  ? 

Schutzmacher.  Oh,  in  my  case  the  secret  was  sim- 
ple enough,  though  I  supjiose  I  should  have  got  into 
trouble  if  it  had  attracted  any  notice.  And  I  m  afraid 
you'll  think  it  rather  infra  dig. 

Ridgeon.  Oh,  1  have  an  open  mind.  "WTiat  was  the 
secret  ? 

Schutzmacher.  Well,  the  secret  was  just  two 
words. 

Ridgeon.      Not  Consultation  Free,  was  it? 

Schutzmacher   [shocked]      No,  no.     Really ! 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  9 

RiDGEON  [apologetic]  Of  course  not.  I  was  only 
joking. 

ScHUTZMACHER.  My  two  words  were  simply  Cure 
Guaranteed. 

RiDGEON    [admirin^^    Cure  Guaranteed ! 

SciirTZMACiiFii.  Guaranteed.  After  all,  thats  what 
everybody  wants  from    i  doctor,  isn't  itr 

RiDGEON.  ^iy  dear  Loony,  it  was  an  inspiration. 
Was  it  on  the  brass  plate.'* 

ScHUTZMACHER.  There  was  no  brass  plate.  It  was 
a  shop  window:  red,  you  know,  with  black  lettering. 
Doctor  Leo  Schutzmacher,  L.R.C.P.M.R.C.S.  Advice 
and  medicine  sixpence.     Cure  Guaranteed. 

RiDGEON.  And  the  guarantee  proved  sound  nine  times 
out  of  ten,  eh? 

ScHUTZMACHER  [rather  hurt  at  S')  moderate  an  est'r- 
matr^  Oh,  much  oftener  than  that.  You  see,  most 
people  get  well  all  right  if  they  are  careful  and  you 
give  them  a  little  sensible  advice.  And  the  medi- 
cine really  did  them  good.  Parrish's  Chemical  Food: 
phosphates,  you  know.  One  tablespoon ful  to  a  twelve- 
ounce  bottle  of  water:  nothing  better,  no  matter  what 
the  case  is. 

RiDGEON.  Redpenny:  make  a  note  of  Parrish's  Chemi- 
cal Food. 

ScHUTZMACHER.  I  take  it  myself,  you  know,  when  I 
feel  run  down.  Good-bye.  You  dont  mind  my  calling, 
do  you.''     Just  to  congratulate  you. 

RiDGEON.  Delighted,  my  dear  Loony.  Come  to  lunch 
on  Saturday  next  week.  Bring  your  motor  and  take  me 
down  to  Hertford. 

ScHUTZMACHER.  I  will.  Wc  shall  be  delighted. 
Thank  you.  Good-bye.  [He  soes  out  with  Ridgeon, 
7vho  returns  immediately]. 

Redpenny.  Old  Paddy  Cullen  was  here  before  you 
were  up,  to  be  the  first  to  congratulate  you. 


10  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  Act  1 

RiDGEON.  Indeed.  Who  taught  you  to  speak  of  Sir 
Patrick  Cullen  as  old  Paddy  Cullen,  you  young  ruffian? 

Redpenny.      You  never  call  him  anything  else. 

RiDGEoN.  Not  now  that  I  aiu  Sir  Colenso.  Next 
thing,  you  fellows  will  be  calling  me  old  Colly  Ridgeon. 

Reupenny.     We  do,  at  St.  Anne's. 

Ridgeon.  Yach  !  Thats  what  makes  the  medical  stu- 
dent the  most  disgusting  Hg\ire  in  modern  civilization. 
No  veneration,  no  manners — no — 

Emmy  [at  the  door,  ainiouiuiug]  Sir  Patrick  Cullen. 
[She  retires]. 

Sir  Patrick  Cullen  is  more  than  twenty  years  older 
than  Ridgeon,  not  yet  quite  at  the  end  of  his  tether,  but 
near  it  and  resigned  to  it.  His  name,  his  plain,  down- 
right, sometimes  rather  arid  common  sense,  his  l-arge 
build  and  stature,  tli-e  absence  of  those  odd  moments  of 
ceremonial  servility  by  which  an  old  English  doctor  some- 
times shews  you  what  the  status  of  the  profession  was  in 
England  in  his  youth,  and  an  occasional  turn  of  speech, 
are  Irish;  but  he  has  lived  all  his  life  in  England  and  is 
thoroughly  acclimatized.  His  manner  to  Ridgeon,  whom 
he  likes,  is  whitnsical  and  fatherly:  to  otiiers  he  is  a  little 
gruff  and  u)iinviting,  apt  to  substitute  more  or  less  ex- 
pressive grunts  for  articulate  speech,  and  generally  in- 
disposed, at  his  age,  to  make  much  social  effort.  He 
shakes  Ridgeon's  hand  and  beams  at  him  cordially  and 
jocularly. 

Sir  Patrick.  Well,  young  chap.  Is  your  hat  too 
small  for  you,  eh? 

Ridgeon.      Much  too  small.     I  owe  it  all  to  you. 

Sir  P.\trick.  Blarney,  my  boy.  Thank  you  all  the 
same.  [He  sit^  in  ane  of  the  arm-chairs  near  the  fire- 
place. Ridgeon  sits  on  the  couch].  Ive  come  to  talk  to 
you  a  bit.      [To  Redpenny]     Young  mfln  •  get  out. 

Redpenny.  Certainly,  Sir  Patrick  [He  collects  his 
papers  and  makes  for  the  door]. 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  11 

Sir  Patrick.  Tliank  you.  Tints  a  good  lad.  [new- 
penny vanishes].  They  all  put  up  with  me,  these  young 
chaps,  because  I'm  an  old  man,  a  real  old  man,  not  like 
you.  Youre  only  beginning  to  give  yourself  the  airs  of 
age.  Did  you  ever  see  a  boy  cultivating  a  moustache.'* 
Well,  a  middle-aged  doctor  cultivating  a  grey  head  is 
much  the  same  sort  of  spectacle. 

RiDGEON.  Good  Lord!  yes:  I  suppose  so.  And  I 
thought  tliat  the  daj's  of  my  vanity  were  past.  Tell  me: 
at  what  age  does  a  man  leave  off  being  a  fool.'' 

Sir  Patrick.  Remember  the  Frenchman  who  asked 
his  grandmother  at  what  age  we  get  free  from  the  temp- 
tations of  love.  The  old  woman  said  she  didn't  know. 
[Ridgeon  laughs].  Well,  I  make  you  the  same  answer. 
But  the  world's  growing  very  interesting  to  me  now. 
Colly. 

Ridgeon.  You  keep  up  your  interest  in  science,  do 
you? 

Sir  Patrick.  Lord!  yes.  Modem  science  is  a  won- 
derful thing.  Look  at  your  great  discovery !  Look  at 
all  the  great  discoveries !  Where  are  they  leading  to  ? 
Why,  right  back  to  my  poor  dear  old  father's  ideas  and 
discoveries.  He's  been  dead  now  over  forty  years.  Oh, 
it's  very  interesting. 

Ridgeon.     Well,  theres  nothing  like  progress,  is  there? 

Sir  Patrick.  Dont  misunderstand  me,  my  boy.  Fm 
not  belittling  your  discovery.  Most  discoveries  are  made 
regularly  every  fifteen  years;  and  it's  fully  a  hundred 
and  fifty  since  yours  was  made  last.  Thats  something  to 
be  ]'ri)ud  of.  But  your  discovery's  not  new.  It's  only 
inoculation.  ]\Iy  father  practised  inoculation  until  it  was 
made  criminal  in  eighteen-forty.  That  broke  the  poor 
old  man's  heart.  Colly:  he  died  of  it.  And  now  it  turns 
out  that  my  father  was  right  after  all.  Youve  brought 
us  back  to  inoculation. 

Ridgeon.     I  know  nothing  about  smallpox.     My  line 


12  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  Act  I 

is  tuberculosis  and  typhoid  and  plague.  But  of  course 
the  principle  of  all  vaccines  is  the  sauie. 

Sir  Patrick.  Tuberculosis?  M-m-m-m !  Youve 
found  out  how  to  cure  consumption,  eh ? 

RiuGEON.     I  believe  so. 

Sir  Patrick.  Ah  yes.  It's  very  interesting-.  What 
is  it  the  old  cardinal  says  in  Browning's  play.'  "  I  liave 
known  four  and  twenty  leaders  of  revolt."  Well,  Ive 
known  over  thirty  men  tliat  found  out  how  to  cure  con- 
sumption. Wliy  do  ])eople  go  on  dying  of  it,  Colly  ? 
Devihnent,  I  supj)ose.  There  was  my  fatlur's  old  friend 
George  Boddington  of  Sutton  ColdHcld.  He  discovered 
the  open-air  cure  in  eighteen-forty.  He  was  ruined  and 
driven  out  of  liis  practice  for  only  opening  the  windows; 
and  now  we  wont  let  a  consumptive  patient  have  as  much 
as  a  roof  over  his  head.  Oh,  it'c  very  very  interesting 
to  an  old  man. 

HiooKox.  You  old  cynic,  you  dont  believe  a  bit  in 
my  discovery. 

Sir  Patrick.  Xo,  no:  I  dont  go  quite  so  far  as  that, 
Colly.     But  still,  you  remember  Jane  Marsh? 

RiDGEox.      Jane  Marsh?     Xo. 

Sir  Pajkick.     You  dont ! 

RiDGKON.        X'c. 

Sir  Patrick.  You  mean  to  tell  me  you  dont  remem- 
ber the  woman  with  the  tuberculosus  ulcer  on  her  arm? 

RiDGEON  [<iilighterj''<l]  Oh,  your  washerwoman's 
daughter.     Was  her  name  Jane  Marsh?     I  forgot. 

Sir  Patrick.  Perhaps  youve  forgotten  also  that  you 
undertook  to  cure  her  with  Koch's  tuberculin. 

RiDGEON.  And  instead  of  curing  her,  it  rotted  her 
arm  right  off.  Yes:  I  remember.  Poor  Jane!  However, 
she  makes  a  good  living  out  of  that  arm  now  by  shewing 
it  at  medical  lectures. 

Sir  Patrick.  Still,  that  wasnt  quite  what  you  in- 
tended, was  it? 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  13 

RiDGEON.     I  took  my  chance  of  it. 

Sir  Patrick.     Jane  did,  you  mean. 

RiDGEON.  Well,  it's  always  the  patient  who  has  to 
take  the  chance  when  an  experiment  is  necessary.  And 
we  can  find  out  nothing  without  experiment. 

Sir  Patrick.  Wliat  did  you  find  out  from  Jane's 
case  ? 

RiDGEON.  I  found  out  that  the  inoculation  that  ought 
to  cure  sometimes  kills. 

Sir  Patrick.  I  could  have  told  you  that.  Ive  tried 
these  modern  inoculations  a  bit  myself.  Ive  killed  peo- 
ple with  them;  and  Ive  cured  people  with  them;  but  I 
gave  them  up  because  I  never  could  tell  which  I  was 
going  to  do. 

RiDGEON  [taking  a  paviphlet  from  a  drawer  in  the 
writing-table  and  handing  it  to  him]  Read  that  the 
next  time  you  have  an  hour  to  spare;  and  youll  find 
out  why. 

Sir  Patrick  [grumbling  and  fumbling  for  his  spec- 
tacles] Oh,  bother  your  pamphlets.  Whats  the  practice 
of  it.''  [Looking  at  the  pamphlet]  Opsonin?  What  the 
devil  is  opsonin? 

RiDGEON.  Opsonin  is  what  you  butter  the  disease 
germs  with  to  make  your  white  blood  corpuscles  eat  them. 
[He  sits  down  again  on   the  couch^. 

Sir  Patrick.  Thats  not  new.  Ive  heard  this  notion 
that  the  white  corpuscles — what  is  it  that  whats  his 
name  ? — ]\Ietchnikoff — calls  them  ? 

RiDGEON.     Phagocytes. 

Sir  Patrick.  Aye,  phagocytes:  yes,  yes,  yes.  Well, 
I  heard  this  theory  that  the  phagocytes  eat  up  the  dis- 
ease germs  years  ago :  long  before  you  came  into  fashion. 
Besides,  they  dont  always  eat  them. 

RiDGEON.  They  do  when  you  butter  them  with  op- 
sonin. 

Sir  Patrick.     Gammon. 


14  The  Doctor's  Dilemma         Act  I 

RiDGEON.  No:  it's  not  gammon.  What  it  comes  ti»  in 
practice  is  this.  The  phagocytes  wont  eat  the  microbes 
unless  the  microbes  are  nicely  buttered  for  them.  Well, 
the  patient  manufactures  the  butter  for  himself  all  right; 
but  my  discovery  is  that  the  manufacture  of  that  butter, 
which  I  call  opsonin,  goes  on  in  the  system  by  uj)s  and 
downs^ — Nature  being  always  rhythmical,  you  know — 
and  tliat  what  the  inoculation  does  is  to  stimulate  tlio  ups 
or  downs,  as  the  case  may  be.  If  we  had  inoculated  Jane 
Marsh  when  her  butter  factory  was  on  the  up-grade,  we 
should  have  cured  her  arm.  But  we  got  in  on  the  down- 
grade and  lost  her  arm  for  her.  I  call  the  up-grade  the 
positive  phase  and  the  down-grade  the  negative  phase. 
Everything  dej^ends  on  your  inoculating  ab  the  right  mo- 
ment. Inoculate  when  the  jiatient  is  in  the  negative 
phase  and  you  kill :  inoculate  when  the  patient  is  in  the 
positive  phase  and  you  cure. 

Sir  Patrick.  And  pray  how  are  you  to  know  whether 
the  patient  is  in  the  positive  or  the  negative  phase.'' 

RiDGEON.  Send  a  drop  of  the  patient's  blood  to  the 
laboratory  at  St.  Anne's;  and  in  fifteen  minutes  I'll  give 
you  his  opsonin  index  in  figures.  If  the  figure  is  one,  in- 
oculate and  cure:  if  it's  under  ))oint  eight,  inoculate  and 
kill.  Thats  my  discovery:  the  most  important  that  has 
been  made  since  Harvey  discovered  the  circulation  of  the 
blood.     My  tuberculosis  patients  dont  die  now. 

Sir  Patrick.  And  mine  do  when  my  inoculation 
catches  them  in  the  negative  phase,  as  you  call  it.     Eh? 

RiDGEON.  Precisely.  To  inject  a  vaccine  into  a  pa- 
tient without  first  testing  his  opsonin  is  as  near  murder 
as  a  respectable  jjractitioner  can  get.  If  I  wanted  to  kill 
a  man  I  should  kill  him  that  way. 

Emmy  [looking  in]  Will  you  see  a  lady  that  wants 
her  husband's  lungs  cured? 

RiDGEON  [impatie7itly]  No.  Havnt  I  told  you  I  will 
see  nobody?     [To  Sir  Patrick]     I  live  in  a  state  of  siege 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  15 

ever  since  it  got  about  that  I'm  a  magician  who  can  cure 
consumption  with  a  drop  of  serum.  [7\/  Lminy ^^  Dout 
come  to  me  again  about  people  who  have  no  appoint- 
ments.    I  tell  you  I  can  see  nobody. 

Emmy.     Well,  I'll  tell  her  to  wait  a  bit. 

RiDGEON  [furious]  Youll  tell  her  I  cant  see  her,  and 
send  her  away:  do  you  hear? 

Emmy  \^unmoved^^  Well,  will  you  see  Mr  Cutler  Wal- 
pole  ?  He  dont  want  a  cure :  he  only  wants  to  congratu- 
late you. 

RiDGEON.  Of  course.  Shew  him  np.  \^She  turns  to 
go].  Stop.  [To  Sir  Patrick]  I  want  tvvo  minutes  more 
with  you  between  ourselves.  [To  Emmy]  Emmy:  ask 
Mr.  Walpolc  to  wait  just  two  minutes,  while  I  finish  a 
consultation. 

Emmy.  Oh,  he'll  wait  all  right.  He's  talking  to  the 
poor  lady.     [She  goes  out]. 

Sir  Patrick.     Well?  what  is  it? 

RiDGEON.     Dont  laugh  at  me.     I  want  your  advice. 

Sir  Patrick.      Professional  advice? 

Ri&GEON.  Yes.  Theres  something  the  matter  with 
me.     I  dont  know  what  it  is. 

Sir  Patrick.  Neither  do  I.  I  suppose  youve  been 
sounded. 

RiDGEON.  Yes,  of  course.  Theres  nothing  wrong 
with  any  of  the  organs :  nothing  special,  anyhow.  But  I 
have  a  curious  aching:  I  dont  know  where:  I  cant  localize 
it.  Sometimes  I  think  it's  my  heart:  sometimes  I  suspect 
my  spine.  It  doesnt  exactly  hurt  me;  but  it  unsettles  me 
completely.  I  feel  that  sometliing  is  going  to  happen. 
And  there  are  other  symptoms.  Scraps  of  tunes  come 
into  my  head  that  seem  to  me  very  pretty,  though  theyre 
quite  commonplace. 

Sir  Patrick.     Do  you  hear  voices? 

RiDGEON.       No. 

Sir  Patrick.     I'm  glad  of  that.     When  my  patients 


16  The  Doctor's  Dilemma         Act  I 

tell  me  that  theyve  made  a  greater  discovery  than  Har- 
vey, and  that  they  hear  voices,  I  lock  them  up. 

RiDGEON.  You  think  I'm  mad!  TliaU  just  the  sus- 
picion that  has  come  across  nu-  once  or  twice.  Tell  me 
tlie  trutli:  I  can  bear  it. 

Sir   Patrick.      Youre  sure  there  are  no  voices.'* 

RiDGEON.      Quite  sure 

Sir  Patrick.      Tlien  it's  only  foolishness. 

RiDGEOx.  Have  you  ever  met  anything  like  it  before 
in  your  practice.'' 

Sir  Patrick.  Oh,  yes:  often.  It's  very  common  be- 
tween the  ages  of  seventeen  and  twenty-two.  It  some- 
times comes  on  again  at  forty  or  thereabouts.  Youre  a 
baclielor,  you  sec.     It's  not  serious — if  yoiirc  careful. 

RiuGKON.     About  m}'  food.^ 

Sir  P.\trick.  No:  about  your  behavior.  Thercs 
nothing  wrong  with  your  spine;  and  theres  nothing 
wrong  with  your  heart ;  but  tlieres  something  wrong  with 
your  common  sense.  Youre  not  going  to  die;  but  you 
may  be  going  to  make  a  fool  of  yourself.  So  be 
careful. 

RiDGEON.  I  see  you  dont  believe  in  my  discovery. 
Well,  sometimes  I  dont  believe  in  it  myself.  Thank  you 
all  the  same.     Shall  we  have  Walpole  up.'' 

Sir  Patrick.  Oh,  have  him  up.  [R'ulireon  rings]. 
He's  a  clever  operator,  is  Walpole,  though  he's  only  one 
of  your  chloroform  surgeons.  In  my  early  days,  you 
made  your  man  drunk;  and  the  porters  and  students  held 
him  down;  and  you  had  to  set  your  teeth  and  finish  the 
job  fast.  Nowadays  you  work  at  your  ease;  and  the  pain 
doesn't  come  until  afterwards,  when  youve  taken  your 
cheque  and  rolled  up  your  bag  and  left  the  house.  I  tell 
you.  Colly,  chloroform  has  done  a  lot  of  mischief.  It's 
enabled  every  fool  to  be  a  surgeon. 

RiDGEox  [to  Emmy,  who  answers  the  bell]  Shew  Mr 
Walpole  up. 


Act  I         The  Doctor's  Dilemma  17 

Emmy.     He's  talking  to  the  lady. 

RiDGEON   [ejrosptrated]      Did  1  not  tell  you-  - 

Emmy  goes  out  without  heeding  him.  He  gives  it  up, 
with  a  shrug,  and  platits  himself  with  his  back  to  the  con- 
sole, leaning  resignedly  against  it. 

Sir  Patrick.  I  know  your  Cutler  Walpoles  .'.'m'i  Lhcir 
like.  Theyve  found  out  that  a  man's  body's  full  of  bits 
and  scraps  of  old  organs  he  has  no  mortal  use  for. 
Thanks  to  chloroform,  you  can  cut  half  a  dozen  of  them 
out  without  leaving  him  any  the  worse,  except  for  the 
illness  and  the  guineas  it  costs  him.  I  knew  the  Wal- 
poles well  fifteen  years  ago.  The  father  used  to  snip  off 
the  ends  of  people's  uvulas  for  fifty  guineas,  and  paint 
throats  with  caustic  every  day  for  a  year  at  two  guineas 
a  time.  His  brother-in-law  extirpated  tonsils  for  two 
hundred  guineas  until  he  took  up  women's  cases  at  double 
the  fees.  Cutler  himself  worked  hard  at  anatomy  to  find 
something  fresh  to  operate  on ;  and  at  last  he  got  hold  of 
something  he  calls  the  nuciform  sac,  which  he's  made 
quite  the  fashion.  People  pay  him  five  hundred  guineas 
to  cut  it  out.  They  might  as  well  get  their  hair  cut  for 
all  the  difference  it  makes;  but  I  suppose  they  feel  im- 
portant after  it.  You  cant  go  out  to  dinner  now  without 
your  neighbor  bragging  to  you  of  some  useless  operation 
or  other. 

Emmy  [announcing]  Mr  Cutler  Walpole.  [She  goes 
out]. 

Cutler  Walpole  is  an  energetic,  unhesitating  man  of 
forty,  with  a  cleanly  modelled  face,  very  decisive  and 
symmetrical  about  the  shortish,  salient,  rather  pretty 
nose,  and  the  three  trimly  turned  corners  made  by  his 
chin  and  jaws.  In  comparison  with  Ridgeon's  delicate 
broken  lines,  and  Sir  Patrick's  softly  rugged  aged  ones, 
his  face  looks  machine-made  and  beeswaxed;  but  his  scru- 
tinizing, daring  eyes  give  it  life  and  force.  He  seems 
never  at  a  loss,  never  in  doubt:  one  feels  that  if  he  made 


18  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  Act  I 

a  mistake  he  jvould  make  it  tiioroughly  and  firmly.  He 
has  neat,  rvell-riourished  hands,  short  arms,  and  is  built 
for  strength  and  co7upactness  rather  than  for  height.  He 
is  smartly  dressed  n-itJi  a  fancy  naistcoat,  a  richly  col- 
ored scarf  secured  by  a  handsome  ring,  ornaments  on  his 
watch  chain,  spats  on  his  shoes,  and  a  general  air  of  the 
well-to-do  sportsman  about  him.  He  goes  straight  across 
to  liidgeon  and  shakes  hands   nith  him. 

Walpole.  My  dtar  Uidju'on,  best  wishes!  heartiest 
con^atulations  !     You  deserve  it. 

RiDOEoN.      Thank  you. 

Walpole.  As  a  man,  mind  you.  You  deserve  it  as  a 
man.  The  opsonin  is  simple  rot.  as  any  capable  surgeon 
can  tell  you;  but  we're  all  delighted  to  see,  your  personal 
qualities' officially  recotjnized.  Sir  Patrick:  how  are  you? 
I  sent  you  a  paper  lately  about  a  little  thing  I  invented: 
a  new  saw.     I"or  shoulder  blades. 

Sir  Patrick  [meditatively]  Yes:  I  got  it.  It's  a 
good  saw:  a  useful,  handy  instrament. 

Walpole  [confidently]     I  knew  youd  see  its  points. 

Sir  Patrick.  Yes:  I  remember  that  saw  sixty-five 
years  ago. 

^^^\LPOLE.    whati 

Sir  Patrick.  It  was  called  a  cabinetmaker's  jimmy 
then. 

Walpole.     Get  out!     Nonacnse!     Cabinetmaker  be — 

RiDGEON.     Never  mind  him,  Walpole.     He's  jealous. 

Walpole.  By  the  way,  I  hope  I'm  not  disturbing 
you  two  in  anything  private. 

RiDGEON.  Xo  no.  Sit  down.  I  was  only  consulting 
him.     I'm  rather  out  of  sorts.     Overwork.  I  suppose. 

Walpole  [sn-iftly]  I  know  whats  the  matter  with  you. 
I  can  see  it  in  your  complexion.  I  can  feel  it  in  the  grip 
of  your  hand. 

RiDGEON.     ^\^lat  is  it? 

W\\LPOLE.     Blood-poisoning. 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  19 

RiDGEON.      Blood-poisoning!     Impossible. 

Walpole.  i  tell  yon,  blood-poisoning.  Ninety-five 
per  cent  of  the  human  race  suffer  from  chronic  blood- 
poisoning,  and  die  of  it.  It's  as  simple  as  A. B.C.  Your 
unciform  sac  is  full  of  decaying  matter — -undigested  food 
and  waste  products — rank  ptomaines.  Now  you  take  my 
advice,  Ridgeon.  Let  me  cut  it  out  for  you.  You'll  be 
another  man  afterwards. 

Sir   Patrick.      Dont  you  like  him  as  he  is? 

Walpole.  No  I  dont.  I  dont  like  any  man  who 
hasnt  a  healthy  circulation.  I  tell  you  this:  in  an  intelli- 
gently governed  country  people  wouldnt  be  allowed  to  go 
about  with  unciform  sacs,  making  themselves  centres  of 
infection.  The  operation  ought  to  be  compulsory:  it's 
ten  times  more  important  than  vaccination. 

Sir  Patrick.  Have  you  had  your  om'ii  sac  removed, 
may  I  ask? 

Walpole  [{>  lumphantly]  I  havnt  got  one.  Look  at 
me!  Ive  no  symptoms.  I'm  as  sound  as  a  bell.  About 
five  per  cent  of  the  population  havnt  got  any;  and  I'm 
one  of  the  five  per  cent.  I'll  give  you  an  instance.  You 
know  Mrs  Jack  Foljambe:  the  smart  Mrs  Foljambe?  I 
operated  at  Easter  on  her  sister-in-law.  Lady  Gorran, 
and  found  she  had  the  biggest  sac  I  ever  saw:  it  held 
about  two  ounces.  Well,  Mrs.  Foljambe  had  the  right 
spirit — the  genuine  hygienic  instinct.  She  couldnt  stand 
her  sister-in-law  being  a  clean,  sound  woman,  and  she 
simply  a  whited  sepulchre.  So  she  insisted  on  my  oper- 
ating on  her,  too.  And  by  George,  sir,  she  hadnt  any  sac 
at  all.  Not  a  trace!  I\t)t  a  rudiment!  !  I  was  so  taken 
aback — so  interested,  that  I  forgot  to  take  the  sponges 
out,  and  was  stitching  them  up  inside  her  when  the  nurse 
missed  them.  Somehow,  I'd  made  sure  she'd  have  an  ex- 
ceptionally large  one.  [He  sits  down  on  the  couch, 
squaring  his  shoulders  and  shvoting  his  hands  out  of  his 
cuffs  as  he  sets  his  hnuchles  akimbo]. 


20  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  Act  I 

Emmy  [looking  in]      Sir  Ralph  Bloomfield  Bonington. 

A  long  and  expectant  pause  follows  this  announcement. 
All  look  to  the  door;  hut  there  is  no  Sir  Ralph. 

Rior.EON   [at  last]      Wliere  is  he? 

Emmy  [looking  back]  Drat  him,  I  thought  he  was 
following  nie.      He's  stayed  down  to  talk  to  that  lady. 

RiDGEON  [exploding]  I  told  you  to  tell  that  lady — 
[Emmy  vanishes]. 

Walpole  [jumping  up  again]  Oh,  by  the  way,  Rid- 
gcon,  that  reminds  me.  Ive  been  talking  to  that  poor 
girl.  It's  her  husband;  and  she  thinks  it's  a  ease  of  con- 
sumption :  the  usual  wrong  diagnosis :  these  damned  gen- 
eral practitioners  ought  never  to  l)c  allowed  to  touch  a 
patient  except  under  the  orders  of  a  consiiltant.  She's 
been  describing  his  symptoms  to  me;  and  the  case  is  as 
plain  as  a  pikestaff:  bad  blood-poisoning.  Now  she's 
poor.  She  cant  afford  to  have  him  operated  on.  Well, 
you  send  him  to  me:  I'll  do  it  for  nothing.  Theres  room 
for  him  in  my  nursing  home.  I'll  j)ut  him  straight,  and 
feed  him  up  and  make  her  happy.  I  like  making  peoph. 
ha)>py.     [He  goes  to  the  chair  near  the  windom]. 

Emmy  [looking  in]     Here  he  is. 

Sir  Ralph  Bloomfeld  Bonington  wafts  himself  into 
the  room.  He  is  a  tall  man,  with  a  head  like  a  tall  and 
slender  egg.  He  has  been  iti  his  time  a  slender  man;  but 
now,  in  his  sixth  decade,  his  waistcoat  has  filled  out  some- 
what. His  fair  eyebrows  arch  good-naturedly  and  un- 
critically. He  has  a  most  musical  voice;  his  speech  is  a 
perpetual  anthenx ;  and  he  never  tires  of  the  sound  of  it. 
He  radiates  an  enormous  self-satisfaction,  cheering,  reas- 
suring, healing  by  the  mere  incompatibility  of  disease  or 
anxiety  with  his  welcome  presence.  Even  broken  bones, 
it  is  said,  have  been  known  to  unite  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice:  he  is  a  born  healer,  as  independent  of  mere  treat- 
ment and  skill  as  any  Christian  scientist.  When  he  ex- 
pands into  oratory  or  scientific  exposition,  he  is  as  ener- 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  21 

getic  as  Walpole;  but  it  is  with  a  bland,  voluminous,  at- 
mospheric energy,  n'hich  envelops  its  subject  and  its 
audience,  and  makes  interruption  or  inattention  impossi- 
ble, and  imposes  veneration  and  credulity  on  all  but  the 
strongest  minds.     He  is  known  in  the  medical  world  as 

o 

B.  B.;  and  the  envy  roused  by  his  success  in  practice  is 
softened  by  the  conviction  that  he  is,  scientifically  con- 
sidered, a  colossal  huinbug:  the  fact  being  that,  though 
he  knoivs  just  as  much  (and  just  as  little)  as  his  contem- 
poraries, the  qualifications  that  pass  muster  in  common 
men  reveal  their  weakness  when  hung  on  his  egregious 
personality. 

B.  B.  Aha!  Sir  Colcnso.  Sir  Colenso,  eh?  Wel- 
come to  the  order  of  knighthood. 

RiDGEON  [shaking  hands]      Thank  you,  B.  B. 

B.  B.  What!  Sir  Patrick!  And  how  are  we  to-day? 
a  Utth^  .^-^ly?  a  little  stiff?  but  hale  and  still  the  clev- 
erest of  us  all.  [Sir  Patrick  grunts].  What!  Walpole! 
the  absent-minded  beggar:  eh? 

Walpole.     What  does  that  mean  ? 

B.  B.  Have  you  forgotten  the  lovely  opera  singer 
I  sent  you  to  have  that  growth  taken  off  her  vocal  cords  ? 

Walpole  [springing  to  his  feet]  Great  lieavens,  man, 
you  dont  mean  to  say  you  sent  her  for  a  throat  opera- 
tion ! 

B.  B.  [archly]  Aha!  Ha  ha!  Aha!  [trilling  like  a 
lark  as  he  shakes  his  finger  at  Walpole] .  You  removed 
her  nuciform  sac.  Well,  well !  force  of  habit !  furce  of 
habit !  Never  mind,  ne-e-e-ver  mind.  She  got  back  her 
voice  after  it,  and  thinks  you  the  greatest  surgeon  alive; 
and  so  you  are,  so  you  are,  so  you  are. 

Walpole  [in  a  tragic  whisper,  intensely  serious] 
Blood-poisoning.     I  see.     I  see.     [He  sits  down  again]. 

Sir  Patrick.  And  how  is  a  certain  distinguished 
family  getting  on  under  your  care.  Sir  Ralph? 

B.  B.     Our  friend  Ridgeon  will  be  gratified  to  hear 


22  The  Doctor's  Dilemnia  Act  I 

that  I  have  tried  his  opsonin  treatment  on  little  Prince 
Henry  with  complete  success. 

RiDGEON   [startled  and  anxious]      But  how 

B.  B.  [continuinsi:]  I  suspected  typhoid:  tli'  head 
gardener's  hoy  had  it ;  so  I  just  called  at  St  Anne's  one 
day  and  got  a  tuhe  of  your  very  excellent  serum.  You 
were  out,  imfortunately. 

RiUGEON.     I  hope  they  explained  to  you  carefully 

B.  B.  [M'rtt'iw^  anai/  the  absurd  suggestion]  Lord 
bless  you,  my  dear  fellow.  I  didnt  need  any  explanations. 
I'd  left  my  wife  in  the  carriage  at  the  door;  and  I'd  no 
time  to  be  taught  my  Inisiness  by  your  young  chaps.  I 
know  all  about  it.  Ive  handled  these  anti-toxins  ever 
since  they  first  came  out. 

RiDGEON.  But  theyre  not  anti-toxins;  and  theyre 
dangerous  unless  you  use  them  at  the  right  time. 

B.  B.  Of  course  they  are.  Everything  is  dangerous 
unless  you  take  it  at  the  right  time.  An  .ippl'^  n<  break- 
f.".st  does  you  good:  an  apple  Tt  bedtime  upsets  you  for 
a  week.  There  are  only  two  rules  for  anti-toxins.  First, 
dont  be  afraid  of  them:  second,  inject  them  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  before  meals,  three  times  a  day. 

RiuGEON  [appalled]     Great  heavens,  B.  B..  no,  no,  no. 

B.  B.  [snceping  on  irrcsistibltf]  Yes,  yes,  yes.  Colly. 
The  })roof  of  the  pudding  is  in  the  eating,  you  know.  It 
was  an  immense  success.  It  acted  like  magic  on  the  little 
prince.  Up  went  bis  temjierature;  off  to  bed  I  packed 
him ;  and  in  a  week  he  was  all  right  again,  and  absolutely 
immune  from  typhoid  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  The  fam- 
ily were  very  nice  about  it:  their  gratitude  was  quite 
touching;  but  I  said  they  owed  it  all  to  you,  Ridgeon ; 
and  I  am  glad  to  think  that  your  knighthood  is  the  result. 

RiuGEON.  I  am  deeply  obliged  to  you.  [Overcome, 
he  sits  down  on  the  chair  near  the  couch]. 

B.  B.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  Your  own  merit.  Coiue  . 
come  !  come  :  dont  give  way. 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  23 

RiDGEON.  It's  nothing.  I  was  a  little  giddy  just 
now.     Overwork.  I  suppose. 

Walpole.      Blood-poisoning. 

B.  B.  Overwork !  Theres  no  such  thing.  I  do  the 
work  of  ten  men.  Am  I  giddy.''  No.  NO.  If  youre 
not  well,  3'ou  have  a  disease.  It  may  be  a  slight  one;  but 
)t's  a  disease.  And  what  is  a  disease?  The  lodgment  in 
the  sj'stera  of  a  pathogenic  germ,  and  the  multiplication 
of  that  germ.  What  is  the  remedy?  A  very  simple  one. 
lind  the  germ  and  kill  it. 

Sir   Patkick.     Suppose  theres  no  germ? 

B.  B.  Impossible.  Sir  Patrick:  there  must  be  a 
germ:  else  how  could  the  patient  be  ill? 

Sir  Patrick.  Can  you  shew  me  the  germ  of  over- 
work ? 

B.  B.  No;  but  why?  Why?  Because,  my  dear  Sir 
Patrick,  though  the  germ  is  there,  it's  invisible.  Nature 
has  given  it  no  danger  signal  for  us.  These  germs — 
these  bacilli — arc  translucent  bodies,  like  glass,  like 
water.  To  make  them  visible  you  must  stain  them.  Well, 
my  dear  Paddy,  do  what  you  will,  some  of  them  wont 
stain.  They  wont  take  cochineal:  they  wont  take  methy- 
lene blue:  they  wont  t;ike  gentian  violet:  they  wont  take 
..uy  coloring  matter.  Consequently,  though  we  know,  f»s 
scientifio  uku,  that  they  exist,  we  cannot  see  them.  But 
can  you  disprove  their  existence?  Can  you  conceive  the 
disease  existing  without  them  ?  Can  you,  for  instance, 
shew  me  a  case  of  diphtheria  without  the  bacillus? 

Sir  Patrick.  No;  but  I'll  shew  you  the  same  bacil- 
lus, without  the  disease,  in  your  own  throat. 

B.  B.  No.  not  the  same.  Sir  Patrick.  It  is  an  entirely 
different  bacillus;  only  the  two  are,  unfortunately,  so 
exactly  alike  that  you  cannot  see  the  difference.  You 
must  miderstand,  my  dear  Sir  Patrick,  that  every  one  of 
these  interesting  little  creatures  has  an  imitator.  JusL  as 
men  imitate  each  other,  germs  imitate  each  other.     There 


24  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  Act  I 

is  the  genuine  diphtheria  bacillus  discovered  by  La?ffler; 
and  there  is  the  pseudo-bacillus,  exactly  like  it,  which  you 
could  find,  as  you  say,  in  my  own  throat. 

Sir  Patrick.  And  how  do  you  tell  one  from  the 
other? 

B.  B.  \\'ell,  obviously,  if  the  bacillus  is  the  genuine 
La-tticr,  you  have  diphtheria;  and  if  it's  the  pseudo- 
bacillus,  yourc  quite  well.  Nothing  simpler.  Science  is 
always  simple  and  always  profound.  It  is  only  the 
half-truths  that  are  dangerous.  Ignorant  faddists  pick 
up  some  superficial  information  about  germs;  and 
they  write  to  the  papers  and  try  to  discredit  science. 
They  dupe  and  mislead  many  honest  and  worthy  people. 
But  science  has  a  perfect  answer  to  them  on  every  point. 

A  little  loarning  is  a  dangerous  thing  ; 
Drink  deep  ;  or  taste  not  the  I'icriun  spring. 

I  mean  no  disrespect  to  your  generation,  Sir  Patrick: 
some  of  you  old  stagers  did  m.-rvcls  through  sliecr  pro- 
fession.il  intuition  and  clinical  experience:  but  when  I 
think  of  the  average  men  of  your  day,  ignorantly  bleed- 
ing and  cupping  and  purging,  and  scattering  germs  over 
their  patients  from  tlieir  clothes  and  instruments,  and 
contrast  all  that  M-ith  the  scientific  certainty  and  simplic- 
ity of  my  treatment  of  the  little  prince  the  other  day,  I 
cant  help  being  proud  of  my  own  generation:  the  men 
who  were  trained  on  the  germ  theory,  the  veterans  of 
the  great  struggle  over  Evolution  in  the  seventies.  We 
mayhave  our  faults;  but  at  least  we  are  men  of  science. 
That  is  why  I  am  taking  up  your  treatment,  Ridgeon, 
and  pushing  it.  It's  scientific.  [He  sits  down  on  the 
chair  near  the  couch^. 

Emmy   [at  the  door,  announcing]    Dr  Blenkinsop. 

Dr  Blenkinsop  is  in  very  different  case  from  the  others. 
He  is  clearly  not  a  prosperous  man.     He  is  flabby  and 


Act  I         The  Doctor's  Dilemma  25 

shabby,  cheaply  fed  and  cheaply  clothed.  He  has  the 
lines  made  by  a  conscience  between  his  eyes,  and  the  lines 
made  by  continual  money  worries  all  over  his  face,  cut 
all  the  deeper  as  he  has  seen  better  days,  and  hails  his 
well-to-do  colleagues  as  their  contemporary  and  old  hos- 
pital friend,  though  even  in  this  he  has  to  struggle  with 
the  diffidence  of  poverty  and  relegation  to  the  poorer 
middle  class. 

RiUGEON.      How  are  you,  Blenkinsop? 

Blenkinsop.  Ive  come  to  offer  my  humble  congratu- 
lations.    Oh  dear !  all  the  great  guns  are  before  me. 

B.  B.  [patronizing,  but  charming]  How  d'ye  do, 
Blenkinsop  ?     How  d'ye  do  } 

Blenkinsop.  And  Sir  Patrick,  too!  [Sir  Patrick 
gruntsl^. 

RiDGEON.     Youve  met  Walpole,  of  course.'' 

^^^\LPOLE.      How  d'ye  do.^ 

Blenkinsop.  It's  the  first  time  Ive  had  that  honor. 
In  my  poor  little  practice  there  are  no  chances  of  meet- 
ing you  great  men.  I  know  nobody  but  the  St  Anne's 
men  of  my  own  day.  [To  JUidgeon]  And  so  youre  Sir 
Colenso.     How  does  it  feel.^ 

RiDGEON.      Foolish  at  first.     Dont  take  any  notice  of  it. 

Blenkinsop.  I'm  ashamed  to  say  I  havnt  a  notion 
what  your  great  discovery  is ;  but  I  congratulate  you  all 
the  same  for  the  sake  of  old  times. 

B.  B.  [ihnclicd]  But,  my  dear  Blenkinsop,  you  used 
to  be  rather  keen  on  science. 

Blenkinsop.  Ah,  I  used  to  be  a  lot  of  things.  I  used 
to  have  two  or  three  decent  suits  of  clothes,  and  flannels 
to  go  up  the  river  on  Sundays.  Look  at  me  now :  this  is 
my  best;  and  it  must  last  till  Christmas.  What  can  I 
do '  Ive  never  opened  a  book  since  I  was  qualified  thirty 
years  ago.  I  used  to  read  the  medical  papers  at  first; 
but  you  know  how  soon  a  man  drops  that;  besides,  I  cant 
afford  them ;  and  what  are  they  after  all  but  trade  papers. 


26  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  Act  I 

full  of  advertisements?  Ive  forgotten  all  my  science: 
whats  the  use  of  my  pretending  I  liavnt?  But  I  have 
great  experience:  clinical  experience;  and  bedside  expe- 
rience is  the  main  thing,  isn't  it? 

B.  B.  Xo  doubt;  always  provided,  mind  you,  that 
you  have  a  sound  scientific  theory  to  correlate  your  ob- 
servations at  the  bedside.  Mere  experience  by  itself  is 
nothing.  If  I  take  my  dog  to  the  bedside  with  mc.  he 
sees  what  I  see.  But  he  learns  nothing  from  it.  Why  ? 
Because  he's  not  a  scientific  dog. 

Walpole.  It  amuses  me  to  hear  you  physicians  and 
general  practitioners  talking  about  clinical  experience. 
What  do  you  see  at  the  bedside  but  the  outside  of  the 
patient?  Well:  it  isnt  his  outside  thats  w^ong,  except 
peril.? ps  in  skin  cases.  What  you  want  is  a  daily  famili- 
aritv  with  people's  insides;  and  that  you  can  only  get  at 
the  operating  table.  I  know  M-hat  I'm  talking  about: 
Ive  been  a  surgeon  and  a  consultant  for  twenty  years; 
and  Ive  never  known  a  general  jiractitioner  right  in  his 
diagnosis  yet.  Bring  them  a  perfectly  simple  case;  and 
they  diagnose  cancer,  and  arthritis,  and  appendicitis,  and 
every  other  itis,  when  any  really  experienced  surgeon 
can  see  that  it's  a  plain  case  of  blood-j)oisoning. 

Blkxkinsop.  Ah,  it's  easy  for  you  gentlemen  to  talk; 
but  what  would  you  say  if  you  had  my  practice?  Except 
for  the  workmen's  clubs,  ray  patients  are  all  clerks  and 
shopmen.  They  darent  be  ill:  they  cant  afford  it.  And 
when  they  break  down,  what  can  I  do  for  them?  You 
can  send  your  people  to  St  Moritz  or  to  Egj-pt,  or  recom- 
mend horse  exercise  or  motoring  or  champagne  jelly  or 
complete  change  and  rest  for  six  months.  /  might  as 
well  order  my  people  a  slice  of  the  moon.  And  the  worst 
of  it  is,  I'm  too  poor  to  keep  well  myself  on  the  cooking 
I  have  to  put  up  with.  Ive  such  a  wretched  digestion ; 
and  I  look  it.  How  am  I  to  inspire  confidence?  [i/e 
sits  disconsolately  on  the  couch'\. 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  27 

RiDGEON  [restlessly]  Dont,  Blenkinsop:  it's  too 
painful.  The  most  tragic  thing  in  the  world  is  a  sick 
doctor. 

Walpol£.  Yes,  by  George:  its  like  a  bald-headed 
luan  trying  to  sell  a  hair  restorer.  Thank  God  I'm  a 
surgeon ! 

B.  B.  [sunnily]  I  am  never  sick.  Never  had  a  day's 
illness  in  my  life.  Thats  what  enables  me  to  sympathize 
with  my  patients. 

Walpole   [i7itereste(l]     What!  youre  never  ill? 

B.  B.     Never. 

Walpole.  Thats  interesting.  I  believe  you  have  no 
nuciform  sac.  If  you  ever  do  feel  at  all  queer,  I  should 
very  much  like  to  have  a  look. 

B.  B.  Thank  you.  my  dear  fellow;  but  I'm  too  busy 
just  now. 

KiooEON.  I  was  just  telling  tliem  when  you  came  in, 
BK-nkinsop,  that   I  have  worked  myself  out  of  sorts 

Blenkinsop.  Well,  it  seems  presumptuous  of  me  to 
oflfer  a  prescription  to  a  great  man  like  you;  but  still  I 
have  great  experience;  and  if  I  might  recommend  a 
pound  of  ripe  greengages  every  day  half  an  hour  before 
lunch,  I'm  sure  youd  find  a  benefit.     Tlievre  very  cheap. 

RiDGEON.     Wliat  do  you  say  to  that  B.  B.? 

B.  B.  [encouragingly]  Very  sensible,  Blenkinsop: 
very  sensible  indeed.  I'm  delighted  to  see  that  you  dis- 
approve of  drugs. 

Sir  Patrick   [grunts]  ! 

B.  B.  [archly]  Aha!  Haha !  Did  I  hear  from  the 
fireside  armchair  the  bow-wow  of  the  old  school  defend- 
ing its  drugs?  Ah,  believe  me,  Paddy,  the  world  would 
be  healthier  if  every  chemist's  shop  in  England  were  de- 
molished. Look  at  the  papers !  full  of  scandalous  adver- 
tisements of  patent  medicines !  a  huge  commercial  system 
of  quackery  and  poison.  Well,  whose  fault  is  it?  Ours. 
I  say,  ours.     We  set  the  example.     We  spread  the  super- 


28  The  Doctor's  Dilemma         Act  I 

stition.  We  taught  the  people  to  believe  in  bottles  of 
doctor's  stuff;  and  now  they  buy  it  at  the  stores  instead 
of  consulting  a  medical  man. 

Walpole.  Quite  true.  Ive  not  prescribed  a  drug  for 
the  last  fifteen  years. 

B.  B.  Drugs  can  only  repress  symptoms:  they  can- 
not eradicate  disease.  The  true  remedy  for  all  diseases 
is  Nature's  remedy.  Nature  and  Science  are  at  one.  Sir 
Patrick,  believe  me;  t^h^uigh  you  were  taught  differently. 
Nature  has  provided,  in  the  white  curpuscles  as  you  call 
them — in  the  phagocytes  as  we  call  them — a  iiatural 
means  of  devouring  and  dcilrj/ing  all  disease  germs. 
There  is  at  bottom  only  one  genuinely  scientific  treat- 
ment for  all  diseases,  and  that  is  to  stimulirte  the  phago- 
cytes. Stimulate  the  pliagocytes.  Drugs  are  a  delusion. 
Find  the  germ  of  the  disease;  prepare  from  it  a  suitable 
anti-toxin;  inject  it  three  times  a  day  quarter  of  an  hour 
bef'.';i.  iiK'hIs;  and  what  is  the  result.''  The  phagocytes 
are  stiumlated ;  they  devour  the  disease ;  and  the  patient 
recovers — unless,  of  course,  lie's  too  far  gone.  That,  I 
take  it,  is  the  essence  of  Ridgeon's  discovery. 

Sir  Patrick  [drenrvihf]  As  I  sit  here,  I  seem  to  hear 
my  poor  old  father  talking  again. 

B.  B.  [rising  in  incredulous  amazement]  Your  fatlieri 
But,  Lord  bless  my  soul,  Paddy,  your  father  must  have 
been  an  older  man  than  you. 

Sir  Patrick.  Word  for  word  almost,  he  said  what 
you  say.     No  more  drugs.     Nothing  but  inoculation. 

B.  B.  \ almost  contempt uouslif]  Inoculation!  Do  you 
mean  smallpox  inoculation.'' 

Sir  Patrick.  Yes.  In  the  privacy  of  our  family 
cii-cle,  sir,  my  father  used  to  declare  his  belief  that  small- 
pox inoculation  was  good,  not  only  for  smallpox,  but  for 
all  fevers. 

B.  B.  [suddenly  rising  to  the  new  idea  with  immense 
interest  and  excitement]     What!     Ridgeon:  did  you  hear 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  29 

that?  Sir  Patrick:  I  am  more  struck  by  what  you  have 
just  told  me  than  I  can  well  express.  Your  father,  sir, 
anticipated  a  discovery  of  my  own.  Listen,  Walpole. 
Blenkinsop:  attend  one  moment.  You  will  all  be  in- 
tensely interested  in  this.  I  was  put  oja  the  track  by 
accident.  I  had  a  typhoid  case  and  a  tetanus  case  side 
by  side  in  the  hospital :  a  beadle  and  a  city  missionary. 
Think  of  what  that  meant  for  them,  poor  fellows !  Can 
a  beadle  be  dignified  with  tj'phoid.f*  Can  a  missionary  be 
eloquent  with  lockjaw.''  No.  NO.  Well,  I  got  some 
typhoid  anti-toxin  from  Ridgeon  and  a  tube  of  Mul- 
dooley's  anti-tetanus  serum.  But  the  missionary  jerked 
all  my  things  off  the  table  in  one  of  his  paroxysms ;  and  in 
replacing  them  I  put  Ridgeon's  tube  where  Muldooley's 
ought  to  have  been.  The  consequence  M'as  that  I  inocu- 
lated the  typhoid  case  for  tetanus  and  the  tetanus  case 
for  typhoid.  [The  doctors  look  greatly  concerned.  B. 
B.,  undamped,  smiles  triumphantly].  Well,  they  recov- 
ered. THEY  RECOVERED.  Except  for  a  toucli  of  St  Vi- 
tus's  dance  the  missionary's  as  well  to-day  as  ever;  and 
the  beadle's  ten  times  the  man  he  was. 

Blenkinsop.  Ive  known  things  like  that  happen. 
They  cant  be  explained. 

B.  B.  [severely]  Blenkinsop:  there  is  nothing  that 
cannot  be  explained  by  science,  \\liat  did  I  do  r  Did  I 
fold  my  hands  helplessly  and  say  that  the  case  could  not 
be  explained  .^  By  no  means.  I  sat  do"svn  and  used  my 
brains.  I  thought  the  case  out  on  scientific  principles.  I 
asked  myself  why  didnt  the  missionary  die  of  typhoid  on 
top  of  tetanus,  and  the  beadle  of  tetanus  on  top  of 
typhoid.^  Theres  a  problem  for  you,  Ridgeon.  Think, 
Sir  Patrick.  Reflect,  Blenkinsop,  Look  at  it  without 
prejudice,  Walpole.  What  is  the  real  work  of  the  anti- 
toxin ?  Simply  to  stimulate  the  phagocytes.  Very  well. 
But  so  long  as  you  stimulate  the  phagocytes,  what  does 
it  matter  which  particular  sort  of  serum  you  use  for  the 


30  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  Act  I 

purpose?  Haha!  Eh?  Do  you  see?  Do  you  gia^p  it? 
Ever  since  that  Ive  used  all  sorts  of  anti-toxins  abso- 
lutely indiscriniinately,  with  i)crfeetly  satisfactory  re- 
sults. I  inoculated  the  little  prince  with  your  stuff, 
Ridgeon,  because  I  wanted  to  give  you  a  lift;  but  two 
years  ago  I  tried  the  experiment  of  treating  a  scarlet 
fever  case  with  a  sample  of  hydrophobia  serum  from  the 
Pasteur  Institute,  and  it  answered  capitally.  It  stimu- 
lated the  phagocytes;  and  the  phagocytes  did  the  rest. 
That  is  why  Sir  Patrick's  father  found  that  inoculation 
cured  all  fevers.  It  stimulated  the  phagocytes.  [He 
throws  himself  into  his  chair,  exhausted  with  the  tri- 
umph of  his  demonstration,  and  beams  magnificently  on 
ihrm].  ' 

E.M.MY  [loohing  in]  Mr  Walpole:  your  motor's  come 
for  you;  and  it's  frightening  Sir  Patrick's  horses;  so 
come  along  quick. 

Walpole  [rising]     Good-bye,  Ridgeon. 

RiDGKoN.     Good-bye;  and  many  thanks. 

B.  B.     You  see  my  point,  Walpole? 

Emmv.  He  cant  wait.  Sir  Ralph.  The  carriage  will 
be  into  the  area  if  he  dont  come. 

Walpole.  I'm  coming.  [To  B.  B.]  Theres  nothing 
in  your  point :  phagocytosis  is  pure  rot :  the  cases  are  all 
blood-poisoning;  and  the  knife  is  the  real  remedy.  Bye- 
bye,  Sir  Paddy.  Hnppy  to  have  met  you,  Mr.  Blenk- 
insop.  Now,  Emmy.  [He  goes  out,  followed  by 
Emmy] . 

B.  B.  [sadly]  Walpole  lias  no  intellect.  A  mere 
surgeon.  Wonderful  operator;  but,  after  all,  what  is  op- 
erating? Onlv  manual  labor.  Brain — brain  remains 
master  of  the  situation.  The  nuciform  sac  is  utter  non- 
sense: theres  no  such  organ.  It's  a  mere  accidental  kink 
in  the  membrane,  occurring  in  perhaps  two-and-a-half 
per  cent  of  the  population.  Of  course  I'm  glad  for  Wal- 
pole's  sake  that  the  operation  is  fashionable;  for  he's  a 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  31 

dear  good  fellow;  and  after  all,  as  I  always  tell  people, 
the  operation  will  do  them  no  harm:  indeed.  Ive  known 
the  nervous  shake-up  and  the  fortnight  in  bed  do  people 
a  lot  of  good  after  a  hard  London  season ;  but  still  it's 
a  shocking  fraud.  [nisi7ig]  Well,  I  must  be  toddling. 
Good-bye,  Paddy  [Sir  Patrick  grunts]  good-bye,  good- 
bye. Good-bye,  my  dear  Blenkinso}),  good-bye !  Good- 
bye, Ridgeon.  Dont  fret  about  your  health:  you  know 
what  to  do:  if  your  liver  is  sluggish,  a  little  mercury 
never  does  any  harm.  If  you  feel  restless,  try  bromide. 
If  that  doesnt  answer,  a  stimulant,  you  know:  a  little 
phosphorus  and  strychnine.  If  you  cant  sleep,  trional, 
trional,  trion — 

Siu  Patuick  [drill/]  But  no  drugs,  Colly,  remember 
that. 

B.  B.  [frmly]  Certainly  not.  Quite  right.  Sir  Pat- 
rick. As  temporary  expedients,  of  course;  but  as  treat- 
ment, no,  xo.  Keep  away  from  the  chemist's  shop,  my 
dear  Ridgeon,  whatever  you  do. 

Ridgeon  [going  to  the  door  nnth  him]  I  will.  And 
thank  you  for  the  knighthood.     Good-bye. 

B.  B.  [stopping  at  the  door,  ivitii  the  beam  in  his  eye 
tn-inkliug  a  little]      By  the  way,  who's  your  patient.' 

RlUGEON.        ^\'ho.'' 

B.  B.  Downstairs.  Charming  woman.  Tuberculous 
husband. 

Ridgeon.     Is  she  there  still.' 

Emmy  [looking  in]  Come  on.  Sir  Ralph:  your  wife's 
waiting  in  the  carriage. 

B.  B.  [suddenly  sobered]  Oh!  Good-bye.  [He  goes 
out  almost  precipitately]. 

Ridgeon.  Emmy:  is  that  woman  there  still.''  If  so, 
tell  her  once  for  all  that  I  cant  and  wont  see  her.  Do 
you  hear? 

Emmy.  Oh,  she  aint  in  a  hurry :  she  doesnt  mind  how 
long  she  waits.     [She  goes  out]. 


32  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  Act  I 

Blenkinsop.  I  must  be  off,  too:  every  lialf  liour  I 
spend  away  from  my  work  costs  me  eighteenpence. 
Good-bye,  Sir  Patrick. 

Sir  Patrick.     Good-bye.     Good-bye. 

RiDGEON.  Come  to  lunch  witli  me  some  day  this 
week. 

Blenkinsop.  I  cant  afford  it,  dear  boy;  and  iL  would 
put  mc  rS  ..ly  jwn  food  fui  a  week.  Thank  you  all  the 
same. 

RiDGEON  [uneasi^  at  Blenhinsop's  poverty]  Can  I  do 
nothing  for  you  ? 

Blenkinsop.  Well,  if  you  have  an  old  frock-coat  to 
spare .''  you  see  what  would  be  an  old  one  for  you  would 
be  a  new  one  for  me;  so  remember  the  jiext  time  you 
turn  out  your  wardrobe.  Good-bye.  [He  hurries 
cut]. 

RiDGEON  \lcokini:;  aft(  r  him]  Poor  chap!  [Tw  I'ng 
to  Si)  Patrick]  So  thats  why  they  made  me  a  knight! 
And  thats  the  medical  profession  ! 

Sir  Patrick.  And  a  very  good  profession,  too,  my 
lad.  When  you  know  as  much  as  I  know  of  the  igno- 
rance and  superstition  of  the  patients,  youll  wonder  that 
we're  half  as  good  as  we  are. 

RiDGEON.     We're  not  a  profession:  we're  a  conspiracy. 

Sir  Patrick.  All  professions  are  conspiracies  against 
the  laity.  And  we  cant  all  be  geniuses  like  you.  Every 
fool  can  get  ill ;  but  every  fool  cant  be  a  good  doctor : 
tl^rrc  are  not  v  nough  good  ones  to  go  round.  And  for  all 
you  know,  Bloomtield  Bonington  kills  less  people  than 
you  do. 

RiDGEON.  Oh,  very  likely.  But  he  realh^  ought  to 
know  the  difference  between  a  vaccine  and  an  anti-toxin. 
Stinmlate  tlic  2>hagocytes !  The  vaccine  doesnt  affect  the 
phagocytes  at  all.  He's  all  wrong:  hopelessly,  danger- 
ously wrong.  To  put  a  tube  of  serum  into  his  hands  is 
murder:  simple  murder. 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  33 

Emmy  [returning]  Now,  Sir  Patrick.  How  long 
more  are  you  going  to  keep  them  horses  standing  in  the 
draught  ? 

Siii  I'atrick.  Whats  that  to  you,  you  old  cata- 
maran I' 

Emmy.  Come,  conio,  now  I  nont-  of  your  temper  to  me. 
And  it's  time  for  Colly  to  get  to  his  work. 

RiuGEON.     Behave  yourself,  Emmy.     Get  out. 

Emmy.  Oh,  I  learnt  how  to  behave  myself  before  I 
learnt  you  to  do  it.  I  know  what  doctors  are:  sitting 
talking  together  about  themselves  when  they  ought  to  be 
with  their  poor  patients.  And  I  know  what  horses  are, 
Sir  Patrick.  I  v.  .-is  uroaghl  up  in  tiic  couiiLr} .  Now  be 
good ;  and  come  along. 

Sir  Patrick  [rising]  Very  well,  very  well,  very  well. 
Good-bye,  Colly.  [He  pats  Kidgeon  on  the  shoulder  and 
goes  out,  turning  for  a  moment  at  the  door  to  look  medi- 
tatively at  Emmy  and  say,  with  grave  conviction]  You 
are  an  ugly  old  devil,  and  no  mistake. 

Emmy  [highly  indignant,  calling  after  him]  Youre 
no  beauty  yourself.  [To  Ridgeon,  much  flustered] 
Theyve  no  manners:  they  think  they  can  say  what  they 
like  to  me;  and  you  set  them  on,  you  do.  I'll  tc.u-h  them 
their  places.  Here  now:  are  you  going  to  see  that  poor 
thing  or  are  you  not? 

Ridgeon.  I  tell  you  for  the  fiftieth  time  I  svont  see 
anybody.     Send  her  away. 

Emmy.  Oh,  I'm  tired  of  being  told  to  send  her  away. 
What  good  will  that  do  her? 

Ridgeon.     Must  I  get  angry  with  you,  Emmy? 

Emmy  [coad:ing]  Come  now:  just  see  her  lor  a  min- 
ute to  please  me:  theres  a  good  boy.  She's  given  me 
half-a-crown.  She  'Jii^iks  it's  life  and  death  to  her  hus- 
band for  her  to  see  you. 

Ridgeon.     Values  her  husband's  life  at  half-a-crown ! 

Emmy.    Well,  it's  all  she  can  afford,  poor  lamb.    Them 


84  The  Doctor's  Dileninia         Act  I 

others  think  nothing  of  half-a-sovereign  just  to  talk 
about  themselves  to  you,  the  sluts !  Besides,  she'll  put 
you  in  a  good  temper  for  the  day,  because  it's  a  good  deed 
to  see  her;  and  she's  the  sort  that  gets  round  you. 

RiDGEON.  \\'cll,  she  hasnt  done  so  badly.  For  half- 
a-crown  slie's  had  a  consultation  with  Sir  Ralph  Bloom- 
field  Bonington  and  Cutler  Walpole.  Thats  six  guineas' 
•worth  to  .start  with.  I  dare  say  she's  consulted  Blenkin- 
sop  too:  thats  another  eighteenpence. 

Em.my.     Then  youll  see  her  for  me,  wont  you? 

RiDGEON.  Oh,  send  her  up  and  be  hanged.  [Emmy 
trots  out,  satisfied.     Ridgeoti  calls]    Redpenny  ! 

Redi'ennv   [appearing  at  the  door]      What  is  it? 

RiuGEoN.  Thercs  a  j)atient  coining  uj).  If  she  hasnt 
gone  in  five  minutes,  come  in  with  an  urgent  call  from  the 
hospital  for  me.  You  understand :  she's  to  have  a  strong 
hint  to  go. 

Redpenny.      Right  O  I     [lie  rauishes]. 

Ridgeoii  goes  to  the  gla^s,  and  arranges  his  tie  a  little. 

E.MMv  [announcing]  Mrs  Doobidad  [Ridgeon  leaves 
the  glass  and  goes  to  the  writing-table]. 

The  lady  comes  in.  Emmy  goes  out  and  shuts  the  door. 
Ridgeon,  n-ho  has  put  on  an  impenetrable  and  rather  dis- 
tant professional  manner,  turns  to  the  lady,  and  invites 
her,  by  a  gesture,  to  sit  down  on  the  couch. 

Mrs  Dubedat  is  beyond  all  demur  an  arrestingly  good- 
looking  young  woman.  She  has  something  of  the  grace 
and  romance  of  a  wild  creature,  with  a  good  deal  of  the 
elegance  and  dignity  of  a  fine  lady.  Ridgeon,  who  is  ex- 
tremely susceptible  to  the  beauty  of  women,  instinctively 
assumes  the  defensive  at  once,  and  hardens  his  manner 
still  more.  He  has  an  impression  that  she  is  very 
ivell  dressed;  but  she  has  a  figure  on  which  any  dreag 
nould  look  well,  and  carries  herself  ivith  the  unaf- 
fected distinction  of  a  woman  who  has  never  in  her  life 
suffered  from  those  doubts  and  fears  as  to  her  social  posi- 


Act  I         The  Doctor's  Dilemma  35 

Hon  which  spoil  the  manners  of  jnost  middling  people. 
She  is  tall,  slender,  end  strong;  has  dark  hair,  dressed  so 
as  to  look  like  hair  and  not  like  a  bird's  nest  or  a  panta- 
loon's wig  {fashion  wavering  just  then  between  these  two 
models);  has  unexpectedly  narrow,  subtle,  dark-fringed 
eyes  that  alter  her  expression  disturbingly  when  she  is 
excited  and  flashes  them  wide  open;  is  softly  impetuous 
in  her  speech  and  swift  in  her  movements;  and  is  just 
now  in  mortal  anxiety.     She  carries  a  portfolio. 

Mrs  Di'BEDAT  [in  low  urgent  tones]      Doctor — 

RiDGEOx  [c«/f///]  Wait.  Before  you  begin,  let  me 
tell  you  at  once  that  I  can  do  nothing  for  you.  My  hands 
are  full.  I  sent  you  that  message  by  my  old  servant. 
You  would  not  take  that  answer. 

Mrs  Dubedat.      How  could  I.'* 

RiDGEON.     You  bribed  her. 

Mrs  Dcbedat.     I — 

RiDGEON.  That  doesnt  matter.  She  coaxed  me  to  see 
you.  Well,  you  must  take  it  from  me  now  that  with  all 
the  good  will  in  the  world,  I  cannot  undertake  another 
case. 

Mrs  DrBEDAT.  Doctor:  you  must  save  my  husband. 
You  mubt.  When  I  explain  to  you,  you  will  see  that  you 
must.  It  is  not  an  ordinary  case,  not  like  any  other  case. 
He  is  not  like  anybody  else  in  the  world:  oh,  believe  me, 
he  is  not.  I  can  prove  it  to  you:  [fingering  her  portfolio] 
I  have  brought  some  things  to  shew  you.  And  you  can 
save  him :  the  papers  say  you  can. 

RiDGEOx.     Whats  the  matter.^     Tuberculosis? 

Mrs  Dubedat.     Yes.     His  left  lung — 

RiDGEON.      Yes:  you  neednt  tell  me  about  that. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  You  can  cure  him,  if  only  you  will. 
It  is  true  that  you  can,  isnt  it?  [In  great  distress]  Oh, 
tell  me,  please. 

RiDGEON  [warningly]  You  are  going  to  be  quiet  and 
self-possessed,  arnt  you? 


36  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  Act  I 

Mrp  DroKDAT.  Yes.  I  heg  yo'-.r  pardon.  I  l.riiiw  I 
slionldnt — [Giving  waij  again]  Oh,  please,  say  that  you 
can  ;  and  then  I  shall  be  all  right. 

RiDGEON  [/'  fj'()\  I  am  not  a  euremonger:  if  you 
■want  cures,  you  must  go  to  the  people  who  sell  them. 
\^Recovering  himself,  ashamed  of  the  tone  of  his  own 
voice]  But  I  have  at  the  hospital  ten  tuberculous  pa- 
tients whose  lives  I  believe  I  can  save. 

Mas  Dtbed.vt.     Thank  God  ! 

RincjEON.  Wait  a  moment.  Try  to  think  of  those  ten 
patients  as  ten  shipwrecked  men  on  a  raft--a  r.u  lli.t  k 
br.rely  Lirge  enough  to  save  them — that  will  not  sujjport 
dne  more.  Another  head  bobs  up  through  the  waves  t 
the  side.  Another  man  begs  to  be  taken  alioard.  He  im- 
plores the  cajjtain  of  the  raft  to  save  him.  But  the  cap- 
tain can  only  do  that  by  pushing  one  of  his  ten  off  the 
raft  and  drowning  him  to  make  room  for  the  new  comer. 
That  is  what  you  are  asking  u.r  to  do. 

Mrs  DiBEDAT.  But  hov.-  can  th:;t  bc.^  I  dont  under- 
stand.    Surely — 

RiDGEON.  You  must  take  my  word  for  it  that  '<■  '«  so. 
My  laboratory,  my  .staff,  and  myself  are  working  at  full 
pressure.  We  are  doing  our  utmost.  The  treatment  is  a 
new  one.  It  takes  time,  means,  and  skill ;  and  there  is  not 
enough  for  another  case.  Our  ten  cases  are  already 
chosen  cases.  Do  you  understand  what  I  mean  by 
clipccp  ? 

Mrs  Dubedat.     Chosen.     No:  I  cant  understand. 

RiDGEON  [sternly]  You  must  understand.  Yuuv'c 
got  to  underst.and  and  to  face  it.  In  every  single  one  of 
those  ten  cases  I  have  had  to  consider,  not  only  whether 
the, man  could  be  saved,  but  whether  he  was  worth  sav- 
ing. There  were  fifty  cases  to  choose  from;  and  forty 
had  to  be  condemned  to  death.  Some  of  the  forty  had 
young  wives  and  helpless  children.  If  the  hardness  of 
their  cases  could  ha^'e  saved  them  thev  would-  have  been 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  37 

sav'ed  ten  times  over.  Ivc  no  doubt  your  case  is  a  hard 
one:  I  c.-in  see  the  tears  in  your  eyes  [she  haxtily  wipes 
her  ct/es]  :  I  know  that  you  have  a  torrent  of  entreaties 
ready  for  uie  the  nionioiil  I  ston  spciking;  but  it's  no 
use.     You  must  go  to  another  doctor. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  But  can  you  give  me  the  name  of  an- 
other doctor  who  understands  your  secret  ? 

RiDtiKON.      I  have  no  secret ;  I  aui  not  a  quack. 

yins  Dubedat.  I  beg  your  pardon:  I  >li  lit  ioean  to 
SiV  anWluncf  wrons;  ^  oou*-  'iii'^rrstnid  how  to  speak 
t;'  you.     Oh,  pray  dont  be  offended. 

RiuGEON  [again  a  Jifilc  ashamed]  There!  there!  never 
mind.  [He  rclaars  and  sits  doivn^.  After  all,  I'm  talk- 
ing nonsense:  I  daresay  1  am  a  quack,  a  quack  with  a 
qualification;     But  uiy  discovery  ii-  moI  jjateiiti-J. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  Then  can  any  docbir  cure  my  hus- 
band? Oh,  why  dont  they  do  it.''  I  have  tried  so  many: 
I  have  spent  so  mucJi.  If  only  you  would  give  me  the 
name  of  another  doctor.  ^ 

RiDGEON.  Every  man  in  this  st/eet  is  a  doctor. 
But  outside  myself  and  the  handful  of  men  I  am 
training  at  St  Anne's,  there  is  nobody  as  yet  who  has 
mastered  the  opsonin  treatment.  And  we  are  full  up? 
I'm  sorry;  but  that  is  all  I  can  say.  [ximz//^]  Good 
morniilg. 

Mrs  Dubedat  [suddeuli/  and  desperately  taking  sovie 
drawings  from  her  portfolio]  Doctor:  look  at  these. 
You  understimd  drawings :  you  have  good  ones  in  your 
waiting-room.     Look  at  them.     They  are  his  work. 

Ridgeon.  It's  no  use  my  looking.  [He  looks,  all  the 
same]  Hallo!  [He  takes  one  to  the  window  and  studies 
it].  Yes:  this  is  the  real  thing.  Yes,  yes.  [Up  hrd-s  at 
another  and  returns  to  her].  These  are  very  clever. 
Theyre  unfinished,  arnt  they? 

.  Mrs  Dubedat.  He  gets  tired  so  soon.  But  you  see, 
dont  you,  what  a  genius  he  is  ?     You  see  that  he  is  worth 


38  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  Act  I 

saving.  Oh,  doctor,  I  married  him  just  to  help  him  to 
begin :  I  had  money  enough  to  tide  him  over  the  hard 
years  at  the  beginning — to  enable  him  to  follow  his  in- 
spiration until  his  genius  was  recognized.  And  I  was 
useful  to  him  as  a  model:  his  drawings  of  me  sold  quite 
quickly. 

HiDGEox.      Have  you  got  one? 

Mas  DrBEDAT  [produciug  another]  Only  this  one. 
It  was  the  first. 

RiDGEOx  [devouring  it  tvith  hix  eyes]  Thats  a  ■w:on- 
derful  drawing.     Why  is  it  called  Jennifer.'' 

Mrs  Di'BEDAT.      My  name  is  Jennifer. 

RincjEON.      A  strange  name. 

Mrs  DrnEUAT.  Not  in  Cornwall.  I  »am  Cornish. 
It's  only  what  you  call  Guinevere. 

RiDGEON  [repeating  the  names  with  a  certain  pleasure 
in  them]  Guinevere.  Jennifer.  [Looldng  again  at  th* 
draning]  Yes:  it  s  really  a  wonderful  drawing.  Excuse 
Die;  but  may  I  ask  is  it  for  sale.^     I'll  buy  it. 

.Mrs  DiBEDAT.  Oh,  take  it.  It's  my  own:  he  gave  it 
to  me.  Take  it.  Take  them  all.  Take  everything; 
ask  an}^hing;  but  save  him.  You  can:  you  will:  you 
mu.st. 

Redpexxy  [entering  tvith  every  sign  of  alarm] 
Theyve  just  teleplioned  from  the  hospital  that  youre  to 
come  instantly — a  patient  on  the  point  of  death.  The 
carriage  is  waiting. 

Ridgeon  [intolerantli^]  Oh,  non.sense:  get  out. 
[Greatly  annoyed]  What  do  you  mean  by  interrupting 
me  like  this? 

Redpenny.     But — 

RiDGEo.N.     Chut!  cant  you  see  I'm  engaged?     Be  off. 

Redpenny,  bewildered,  vanishes. 

Mrs  Dubedat  [rising]  Doctor:  one  instant  only  be- 
fore you  go — 

PiiUGEON.     Sit  down.      It's  nothing. 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  39 

Mrs  Dubedat.  But  the  patient.  He  said  he  was 
dying. 

RiDGEOx.  Oh,  he's  dead  by  this  time.  Never  mind. 
Sit  down. 

Mrs  Dubedat  [sitting  down  and  breaking  down^ 
Oh,  you  none  of  you  care.  You  see  people  die  every 
dav. 

RiDGEON  [petting  her]  Nonsense!  it's  nothing:  I  told 
him  to  come  in  and  say  that.  I  thought  I  should  want  to 
get  rid  of  you. 

Mrs  Dubedat  [shocked  at  the  falsehood]     Oh! 

RiDGEON  [continuing]  Dont  look  so  bewildered: 
thcres  nobody  dying. 

Mrs  Dueedat.      My  husband  is. 

RiDGEOx  [pulling  liimself  together]  Ah,  yes:  I  had 
forgotten  your  husband.  Mrs  Dubedat:  you  are  asking 
me  to  do  a  very  serious  thing.'' 

Mrs  Dubedat.  I  am  asking  you  to  save  the  life  of  a 
great  man. 

RiDGEON.  You  are  asking  me  to  kill  another  man  for 
his  sake;  for  as  surely  as  I  undertake  another  ease,  I 
shall  have  to  hand  back  one  of  the  old  ones  to  the  ordi- 
nary treatment.  Well,  I  dont  shrink  from  that.  I  have 
had  to  do  it  before;  and  I  will  do  it  again  if  you  can 
convince  me  that  his  life  is  more  important  than  the 
worst  life  I  am  now  saving.  But  you  must  convince  me 
first. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  He  made  those  drawings;  and  they 
are  not  tlie  best — nothing  like  the  best;  only  I  did  not 
bring  the  really  best:  so  few  people  like  them.  He  is 
twenty-three :  his  whole  life  is  before  him.  Wont  you  let 
me  bring  him  to  you?  wont  you  speak  to  him?  wont  you 
see  for  yourself? 

RiDGEON.  Is  he  well  enough  to  come  to  a  dinner  at 
the  Star  and  Garter  at  Richmond? 

Mrs  Dubedat.     Oh  yes.     Why? 


40  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  Act  I 

RiDGEON.  I'll  Ull  you.  I  am  inviting  all  my  old 
friends  to  a  dinner  to  celebrate  my  knighthood — yoiive 
seen  about  it  in  the  ])apers,  havnt  you? 

Mus  DuuEDAT.  Yes,  oh  yes.  That  was  how  1  tound 
out  about  you. 

RiOGEON.  It  will  be  a  doctors'  dinner;  and  it  was  to 
have  been  a  bachelors'  dinner.  I'm  a  bachelor.  Now  if 
you  will  entertain  for  me,  and  bring  your  husband,  he 
will  meet  me;  and  he  will  mi'tt  some  of  the  most  eminent 
men  in  my  profession:  Sir  Patrick  Cullen.  Sir  italph 
BloornlTcld  B'Mii^iglj.j,  Cutler  U'alpole,  and  oth.-rs.  I 
can  put  the  case  to  them ;  and  your  husband  will  have  to 
stand  or  fall  by  what  we  think  of  him.     Will  you  come.'' 

Mks  Dubedat.  Yes,  of  course  I  will  Vomc.  Oh, 
thank  you,  thank  you.  And  may  I  bring  some  of  his 
drawings — the  really  good  ones.'' 

Rin(iEoN.  Yes.  I  will  let  you  know  the  date  in  the 
course  of  to-morrow.     Le.vf   me  your  address. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  Thank  you  again  and  again.  You 
have  made  me  so  happy:  I  know  you  will  admire  him  and 
like  him.     This  is  my  address.     [She  givrs  him  her  card]. 

RiDGEON.      Thank  you.      [He  "-irigs]. 

Mhs  DiBEDAT  [e^iib.'.rrassed]  May  I — is  there — 
should  I — I  mean — [xhe  hliishex  and  stops  in  confusioit]. 

RiDGEON.      Whats  the  matter.^ 

Mrs  Dubedat.     Your  fee  for  this  consultation.'' 

RiDGEox.  Oh,  1  forgot  that.  Shall  we  say  a  beauti- 
ful drawing  of  his  favorite  model  for  the  whole  treat- 
ment, including  the  cure.'' 

Mhs  Dubedat.  You  are  very  generous.  Thank  you. 
I   know  you  will  cure  him.     Good-bye. 

RiDcucoN.  I  will.  Good-bye.  [They  shake  hands]. 
By  the  way,  you  know,  dont  you,  that  tuberculosis  is 
catching.     You  take  every  precaution,  I  hope. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  I  am  not  likely  to  forget  it.  They 
treat  us  like  lepers  at  the  hotels. 


Act  I  The  Doctor's  Dilemma  41 

Emmy  [at  tJie  door]  Well,  deary:  have  you  got  round 
him? 

RiDGEON.  Yes.  Attend  to  the  door  and  hold  your 
tongue. 

Emmv.  Thats  a  good  boy.  [She  goes  out  with  J//\» 
Ditbedat]. 

RiDGEON  [alone\  Consultation  free.  Cure  guaran- 
teed,    [//e  heaves  a  great  sigh\. 


ACT    II 

After  dinner  on  the  terran  at  the  Star  and  Garter, 
Richmond.  Cloudless  sninmer  night;  nothing  disturbs 
the  stillness  except  from  time  to  time  the  lofig  trajectory 
of  a  distant  train  and  the  measured  clucking  of  oars  com- 
ing up  from  the  Thames  in  the  valley  below.  The  dinner 
is  over;  and  three  of  the  eight  cJiairs  are  empty.  Sir 
Patrick,  with  his  back  to  the  vieiv,  is  at  the  head  of  the 
square  table  with  Ridgeon.  The  two  chairs  opposite 
them  are  empty.  On  tlieir  right  come,  first,  a  vacant 
chair,  and  then  one  very  fully  occupied  by  B.  B.,  who 
basks  blissfully  in  the  moonbeams.  On  their  left,  Schutz- 
macher  and  Walpole.  The  entrance  to  the  hotel  is  on 
their  right,  behind  B.  B.  The  five  men  are  silently  en- 
joying their  coffee  and  cigarets,  fidl  of  food,  and  not  al- 
together void  of  nine. 

Mrs  Dubedat,  wrapped  up  for  departure,  comes  in. 
They  rise,  except  Sir  Patrick;  but  she  takes  one  of  the 
vacant  places  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  next  B.  B.;  and 
they  sit  down  again. 

Mrs  Dubedat  [as  she  entcis]  Louis  will  be  here  pres- 
ently. He  is  shewing  Dr  Blenkinsop  how  to  work  the 
telephone.  [She  sits.]  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  we  have  to  go. 
It  seems  such  a  shame,  this  beautiful  night.  And  we 
have  enjoyed  ourselves  so  much. 

42 


Act  II        The  Doctor's  Dilemma  43 

RiDGEON.  I  dont  believe  another  half-hour  would  do 
Mr  Dubedat  a  bit  of  harm. 

Sir  Patrick.  Come  now,  Colly,  come !  come  !  none  of 
that.  You  take  your  man  home,  Mrs  Dubedat;  and  get 
him  to  bed  before  eleven. 

B.  B.  Yes,  yes.  Bed  before  eleven.  Quite  right, 
quite  right.  Sorry  to  lose  you,  my  dear  lady ;  but  Sir 
Patrick's  orders  are  the  laws  of — er — of  Tyre  and  Sidon. 

Walpole.      Let  me  take  you  home  in  my  motor. 

Sir  Patrick.  No.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself,  Walpole.  Your  motor  will  take  Mr  and  Mrs 
Dubedat  to  the  station,  and  quite  far  enough  too  for  an 
open  carriage  at  night. 

Mrs  Dubedat.     Oh,  I  am  sure  the  train  is  best. 

RiDGEON.  Well,  Mrs  Dubedat,  we  have  had  a  most 
enjoyable  evening. 

Walpole.  j  Most  enjoyable. 

B.  B.  (  Delightful.     Charming.     Unforgettable. 

Mrs  Dubedat  [with  a  touch  of  shy  anxiety]  What 
did  you  think  of  Louis.-*     Or  am  I  wrong  to  ask.^ 

RiDGEON.  Wrong!  Why,  we  are  all  charmed  with 
him. 

Walpole.      Delighted. 

B.  B.  Most  happy  to  have  met  him.  A  privilege,  a 
real  privilege. 

Sir  Patrick  [grunts^^  ! 

Mrs  Dubedat  [quickly]  Sir  Patrick:  are  you  un- 
easy about  him? 

Sir  Patrick  [discreetly^  I  admire  his  drawings 
greatly,  maam. 

Mrs  Dubedat.     Yes;  but  I  meant — 

RiDGEON.  You  shall  go  away  quite  happy.  He's 
worth  saving.     He  must  and  shall  be  saved. 

Mrs  Dubedat  rises  and  gasps  with  delight,  relief,  and 
gratitude.  They  all  rise  except  Sir  Patrick  and  Schutz- 
macher,  and  come  reassuringly  to  her. 


44  The  Doctor's  Dilemma        Act  H 

B.   B.      Ccrt.'iinly,  cer-tainly. 

Walpole.  Theres  no  real  dirticulty,  if  only  you 
know  what  to  do. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  Oh,  how  can  I  ever  thank  you! 
From  this  night  I  can  begin  to  be  happy  at  last.  You 
dont  know  what  I   feel. 

She  sits  down  in  tears.  They  crowd  about  her  to  con- 
sole her. 

B.  B.  My  dear  lady :  come  come !  come  come  !  [  very 
persuasively  I    come  come! 

Walpole.     Dont  mind  us.     Have  a  good  cry. 

RiDGEON.  No:  dont  cry.  Your  husband  had  better 
not  know  that  weve  been   talking  about  him. 

Mhs  DiBEOAT  [(juiLly  pullivi;  herself  together] 
No,  of  course  not.  Please  dont  mind  me.  \^'liat  a  glo- 
rious thing  it  must  be  to  be  a  doctor!  [They  laugh]. 
Dont  laugh.  You  dont  know  what  youve  done  for  me. 
I  never  knew  imtil  now  how  deadly  afraid  I  was — liow 
I  had  oomc  to  dread  the  worst.  1  never  dared  let  myself 
know.      But  now  tht    relief  has  come:  now  1  know. 

Louis  Duhcdot  comes  from  the  hotel,  in  his  overcoat, 
his  throat  tvr^ipped  in  a  shawl.  He  is  a  slim  young  man 
of  23,  physically  still  a  stripling,  and  pretty,  though  not 
effeminate.  He  has  turquoise  blue  eyes,  and  a  trick  of 
looking  you  straight  in  the  face  with  thevi,  which,  com- 
bined with  a  frank  smile,  is  very  engaging.  Although 
he  is  all  nerves,  and  very  observant  and  quick  of  appre- 
hension, Ji'e  is  not  in  the  least  shy.  He  is  younger  than 
Jennifer;  but  he  patronizes  her  as  a  matter  of  course. 
The  doctors  do  not  put  him  out  in  the  least:  neither  Sir 
Patrick's  years  nor  Bloomfeld  Bonington's  majesty  have 
the  smallest  apparent  effect  on  him:  he  is  as  natural  as  a 
cat:  he  rjioves  among  men  as  most  men  move  among 
things,  though  he  is  intentionally  making  himself  agree- 
able to  them  on  this  occasion.  Like  all  people  who  can 
be  depended  on  to  take  care  of  themselves,  he  is  welcome 


Act  II        The  Doctor's  Dilemma  45 

company;  and  his  artist's  potver  of  appealing  to  the  im- 
agination gains  him  credit  for  all  sorts  of  qualities  and 
powers,  whether  he  possesses  them  or  not. 

Louis  [pulling  on  his  gloves  behind  liidgeon's  chair] 
Now,  Jinny-Gwinny :  the  motor  has  come  round. 

RiDGEOX.  Why  do  you  let  him  spoil  your  beautiful 
name  like  that,  Mrs  Dubedat? 

Mks  Dubedat.  Oli,  on  grand  occasions  I  am  Jen- 
nifer. 

B.  B.  You  are  a  bachelor:  you  do  not  understand 
these  things,  Ridgeon.  Look  at  me  [They  Look\.  I 
also  have  two  names.  In  moments  of  domestic  worry,  I 
am  simple  Ralph.  When  the  sun  shines  in  the  home,  I 
am  Bcedle-Dcedle-Dumkins.  Such  is  married  life !  Mr 
Dubedat:  may  I  ask  you  to  do  me  a  favor  before  you  go. 
Will  you  sign  your  name  to  this  menu  card,  under  the 
sketch  you  have  made  of  me.'' 

Walpole.     Yes;  and  mine  too,  if  you  will  be  so  good. 

Louis.  Certainly.  [lie  sits  down  and  signs  the 
card))]. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  Wont  you  sign  Dr  Schutzmacher's 
for  him,  Louis.'' 

Louis.  I  dont  think  Dr  Schutzmacher  is  pleased  with 
his  portrait.  I'll  tear  it  up.  [He  reaches  across  the  ta- 
ble for  Schutzmacher's  menu  card,  and  is  about  to  tear  it. 
Schutzmacher  makes  no  sign^. 

Ridgeon.     No,  no:  if  Loony  doesnt  want  it,  I  do. 

Louis.  I'll  sign  it  for  you  with  pleasure.  ^11  e  signs 
and  hands  it  to  Ridgeon].  Ive  just  been  making  a  little 
note  of  the  river  to-night:  it  will  work  up  into  something 
good  [he  shews  a  pocket  sketch-book].  I  think  I'll  call 
it  the  Silver  Danube. 

B.  B.     Ah,  charming,  charming. 

Walpole.      Very  sweet.     Youre  a  nailer  at  pastel. 

Louis  coughs,  first  out  of  modesty,  then  from  tubercu- 
losis. 


46  The  Doctor's  Dileninia        Act  11 

Sir  Patrick.  Now  then,  Mr  Dubedat:  youve  had 
enough  of  the  night  air.     Take  him  home,  maam. 

Mrs  Dubedat.      Yes.     Come,  Louis. 

RiDGEON.  Never  fear.  Never  mind.  I'll  make  that 
cough  all  right. 

B.  B.  \\c  will  stimulate  the  phagoeytes.  [JVith  ten- 
der effusion,  shahiiiir  her  hand]  Good -night,  Mrs  Dube- 
dot.      Good-night,      (iood-night. 

Walpole.  If  the  phagocytes  fail,  come  to  me.  I'll 
put  you  right. 

Louis.  Good-night,  Sir  Patrick.  Happy  to  have  met 
you. 

Sir   Patrick.     'Night   [hnlf  a  gmnt]. 

Mrs  Duuedat.      Good-night,  Sir  Patrick. 

Sir  Patrick.  Cover  yourself  well  up.  Dont  think 
your  lungs  .ire  made  of  iron  because  tlieyre  better  than 
his.     Good-night. 

Mrs  Duuedat.  Thank  you.  Thank  you.  Nothing 
hurts  me.     Good-night. 

Louis  goes  out  through  the  hotel  without  noticing 
Schutzniacher.  Mrs  Dubedat  hesitates,  then  bon's  to 
hitn.  Schut-macher  rises  and  bon's  formally,  German 
fashion.  She  goes  out,  attended  by  liidgeon.  The  rest 
resume   their  seats,  ruminating  or  smoking  quietly. 

B.  B.  [harmoniously]  Dee-lightful  couple  I  Charm- 
ing woman!  Gifted  had  I  Remarkable  talent!  Grace- 
ful outlines!  Perfect  evening!  Great  success!  Inter- 
esting case !  Glorious  night !  Exquisite  scenery  !  Capi- 
tal dinner!  Stimulating  conversation!  Restful  outing! 
Good  wine!  Haj)py  ending!  Touching  gratitude  I 
Lucky  Ridgeon — 

RiDGEON  [returning]  Whats  that.'  Calling  me,  B. 
B.?     [He  goes  back  to  his  seat  next  Sir  Patrick]. 

B.  B.  No,  no.  Only  congratulating  you  on  a  most 
successful  evening!  Enchanting  woman!  Thorough 
breeding !     Gentle  nature !     Refined — 


Act  II        The  Doctor's  Dilemma  47 

Blenkinsop  comes  from  the  hotel  and  takes  the  empty 
chair  next   Ridgeon. 

Blenkinsop.  I'm  so  sorry  to  have  left  you  like  this, 
Ridgeon;  but  it  was  a  telephone  message  from  the  police. 
They've  found  half  a  milkman  at  our  level  crossing  with 
a  prescription  of  mine  in  its  pocket.  Wheres  Mr  Dube- 
dat.? 

Ridgeon.     Gone. 

Blenkinsop  l^risiug,  very  pale\     Gone! 

Ridgeon.     Just  this  moment — 

Blenkinsop.  -Perhaps  I  could  overtake  him — [/<e 
rushes  into  the  hotel]. 

Walpole  [calling  after  him]  He's  in  the  motor,  man, 
miles  off.     You  can — [giving  it  up].     No  use. 

Ridgeon.  Theyre  really  very  nice  people.  I  confess 
I  was  afraid  the  husband  would  turn  out  an  appalling 
bounder.  But  he's  almost  as  charming  in  his  way  as  she 
is  in  hers.  And  theres  no  mistake  about  his  being  a 
genius.  It's  something  to  have  got  a  case  really  worth 
saving.  Somebody  else  will  have  to  go;  but  at  all  events 
it  will  be  easy  to  find  a  worse  man. 

Sir  Patrick.     How  do  you  know? 

Ridgeon.  Come  now.  Sir  Paddy,  no  growling.  Have 
somt'thing  more  to  drink. 

Sir  Patrick.     No,  thank  you. 

Walpole.  Do  vou  see  anj^hing  wrong  with  Dube- 
dat,  B.  B.  ? 

B.  B.  Oh.  a  charming  young  fellow.  Besides,  after 
all,  what  could  be  wrong  with  him?  I.ook  at  him. 
What  could  be  wrong  with  him? 

Sir  Patrick.  There  are  two  things  that  can  be 
wrong  with  any  man.  One  of  them  is  a  cheque.  The 
other  is  a  woman.  Until  you  know  that  a  man's  sound 
on  these  t«'o  points,  you  know  nothing  about  him. 

B.   B.     Ah,  cynic,  cynic ! 

Walpole.     Hes  all  right  as  to  the  cheque,  for  a  while 


48  The  Doctor's  Dilemma       Act  II 

at  all  events.  He  talked  to  me  quite  frankly  before  din- 
ner as  to  tlie  pressure  of  money  difficulties  on  an  artist. 
He  says  he  has  no  vices  and  is  very  economical,  but  that 
thcres  one  extravagance  he  cant  afford  and  yet  cant  re- 
sist; and  tliat  is  dressing  his  wife  prettily.  So  I  said, 
bang  plump  out,  "  Let  me  lend  you  twenty  pounds,  and 
pay  me  when  your  ship  comes  home."  He  was  really 
very  nice  about  it.  He  took  it  like  a  man ;  and  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  see  how  hajipy  it  made  him,  poor  chap. 

B.  B.  [who  has  li.ttencil  to  JTalpole  triih  grotving  per- 
turhatioti]      But — but — but — when  was  this,  may  I  ask.'' 

Walpole.  When  I  joined  you  that  time  down  by  the 
river. 

B.  B.  But,  my  dear  Walpole,  he  had  just  borrowed 
ten  pounds  from  me. 

Walpole,      What! 

Sir   Patrick    [iirnnts^  ! 

B.  B.  [iudttlgfiitlif]  Well,  well,  it  was  really  hardly 
borrowing;  for  he  said  heaven  only  knew  when  he  could 
pay  me.  I  couldnt  refuse.  It  appears  that  Mrs  Dube- 
dat  has  taken  a  sort  of  fancy  to  me — 

Walpole  [qitickli/]      Xo:  it  was  to  me. 

B.  B.  Certainly  not.  Your  name  was  never  men- 
tioned between  us.  He  is  so  wra]iped  up  in  his  work 
that  he  has  to  leave  her  a  good  deal  alone;  and  the  poor 
innocent  young  fellow — he  has  of  course  no  idea  of  my 
position  or  how  busy  I  am — actually  wanted  me  to  call 
occasionally  and  talk  to  her. 

Walpole.     Exactly  what  he  said  to  me! 

B.   B.     Pooh !      Pooh   pooh !      Really,   I   must  say. 
[Much  disturbed,  he  rises  and  goes  up  to  the  balustrade, 
contemplating  the  landscape  vexedly]. 

Walpole.  Look  here,  Ridgeon  I  this  is  beginning  to 
look  serious. 

Blenkinsop,  very  anxious  and  wretched,  but  trying  to 
look  unconcerned,  comes  back. 


Act  II        The  Doctor's  Dilemma  49 

RiDGEON.     Well,  did  you  catch  him? 

Blenkinsop.  No.  Excuse  my  running  away  like 
that.  [lie  sits  down  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  next  Bloom- 
field  Bonington's  chair], 

W'ali'ole.     Anything  the  matter.^ 

Blenkinsop.  Oh  no.  A  trifle — something  ridiculous. 
It  cant  be  helped.     Never  mind. 

RiDGEON.      Was  it  anything  about  Dubedat.'' 

Blenkinsop  [almost  breaking  down]  I  ought  to  keep 
it  to  myself,  I  know.  I  cant  tell  you,  Ridgeon,  how 
ashamed  I  am  of  dragging  my  miserable  poverty  to  your 
dinner  after  all  your  kindness.  It's  not  that  you  wont 
ask  me  again ;  but  it's  so  humiliating.  And  I  did  so  look 
forward  to  one  evening  in  my  dress  clothes  (they re  still 
presentable,  you  see)  with  all  my  troubles  left  behind, 
just  like  old  times. 

RiDGEox.     But  what  has  happened.'* 

Blenkinsop.  Oh,  nothing.  It's  too  ridiculous.  I 
had  just  scraped  up  four  shillings  for  this  little  outing; 
and  it  cost  me  one-and- four  pence  to  get  here.  Well, 
Dubedat  asked  me  to  lend  him  half-a-crown  to  tip  the 
chambermaid  of  the  room  his  wife  left  her  wraps  in,  and 
for  the  cloakroom.  He  said  he  only  wanted  it  for  five 
minutes,  as  she  had  his  purse.  So  of  course  I  lent  it  to 
him.  And  he's  forgotten  to  pay  me.  I've  jUst  tuppence 
to  get  back  with. 

RiDGEON.      Oh,  never  mind  that — 

Blenkinsop  [stopping  him  resolutely]  No:  I  know 
what  youre  going  to  say;  but  I  wont  take  it.  Ive  never 
borrowed  a  penny ;  and  I  never  will.  Ive  nothing  left 
but  my  friends;  and  I  wont  sell  them.  If  none  of  you 
were  to  be  able  to  meet  me  without  being  afraid  that  my 
civility  was  leading  up  to  the  loan  of  five  shillings,  there 
would  be  an  end  of  everything  for  me.  I'll  take  your 
old  clothes.  Colly,  sooner  than  disgrace  you  by  talking  to 
you  in  the  street  in  my  own;  but  I  wont  borrow  money. 


50 


The  Doctor's  Dilemma       Act  II 


I'll  train  it  as  far  as  the  twopence  will  take  me;  and  I'll 
tramp  the  rest. 

\\'alim)lf,.  Ynull  do  tlie  whole  distance  in  my  motor. 
l^They  are  all  greatly  relieved;  and  Walpole  hastens  to 
get  away  from  the  painful  subject  by  addir.g]  Did  he 
get  anytliing  out  of  you,  Mr  Schutzmacher? 

SciUTZMAciiER  [shohes  ]iis  head  in  a  most  ejpressive 
negative] . 

Walpole.      You  didnt  apprcciite  his  drawing,  I  think. 

ScHCTZMACHER.  Oh  vcs  I  did.  I  should  have  liked 
very  much  to  have  kept  the  sketch  and  got  it  autograplied. 

B.  B.     But  why  didnt  you.^ 

ScnrTZMACHEH.  Well,  the  fact  is,  when  I  joined 
Dubcdat  after  his  conversation  with  Mr  Walpole,  he  said 
the  Jews  were  the  only  jieojile  who  knew  anything  about 
art,  and  that  thougli  he  liad  to  put  up  with  your  Philis- 
tine twaddle,  ;is  he  called  it,  it  was  what  I  said  about  the 
drawings  that  really  pleased  him.  He  also  said  that  his 
wife  was  greatly  struck  witli  my  knowledge,  and  that 
she  always  admired  Jews.  Then  he  asked  me  to  advance 
Jiim  £.50  on  the  security  of  the  drawings. 

No,  no.    Positively!    Seri- 


B.  B. 

Walpole 
Blenkixsop 
Sir  Patrick 

ScHrTZMAClIER 


[All  ously! 

exclaiininrr  >  Wliat !     Another  fiftv  ! 
together^       Think  of  that! 
J     [grunts]  ! 
Of  course  I  couldnt  lend  money  to 


a  stranger  like  that. 

B.  B.  I  envy  you  the  power  to  say  No,  Mr  Schutz- 
macher. Of  course,  I  knew  I  oughtnt  to  lend  money  to 
-£  young  fellow  in  that  way ;  but  I  simply  hadnt  the  nerve 
to  refuse.     I  couldnt  very  well,  you  know,  could  I  ? 

Schutzmacher.  I  dont  understand  that.  /  felt  that 
I  couldnt  very  well  lend  it. 

Walpole.      What  did  he  say? 

Schutzmacher.     Well,  he  made  a  very  uncalled-for 


Act  II       The  Doctor's  Dilemma  51 

remark  about  a  Jew  not  understanding  the  feelings  of  a 
gentleman.  I  must  say  you  Gentiles  are  very  hard  to 
please.  You  say  we  are  no  gentlemen  when  we  lend 
money;  and  when  we  refuse  to  lend  it  you  say  just  the 
same.  I  didnt  mean  to  behave  badly.  As  I  told 
him,  I  might  have  lent  it  to  him  if  he  had  been  a  Jew 
himself. 

Sir  Patrick  [?vith  a  grunt]  And  what  did  he  say  to 
that  ? 

ScHUTZMACHER.  Oh,  lie  began  trying  to  persuade  me 
that  he  was  one  of  the  chosen  people — that  his  artistic 
faculty  shewed  it,  and  that  his  name  was  as  foreign  as 
my  own.  He  said  he  didnt  really  want  £50;  that  he  was 
only  joking;  that  all  he  wanted  was  a  couple  of  sov- 
ereigns. 

B.  B.  No,  no,  Mr  Schutzmacher.  You  invented  that 
last  touch.     Seriously,  now  ? 

Schutzmacher.  No.  You  cant  improve  on  Nature 
in  telling  stories  about  gentlemen  like  Mr  Dubedat. 

Blenkinsop.  You  certainly  do  stand  by  one  another, 
you  chosen  people,  Mr  Schutzmacher. 

Schutzmacher.  Not  at  all.  Personally,  I  like  Eng- 
lishmen better  than  Jews,  and  always  associate  with 
them.  Thats  only  natural,  because,  as  I  am  a  Jew,  theres 
nothing  interesting  in  a  Jew  to  me,  whereas  there  is  al- 
ways something  interesting  and  foreign  in  an  English- 
man. But  in  money  matters  it's  quite  different.  You 
see,  when  an  Englishman  borrows,  all  he  knows  or  cares 
is  that  he  wants  money ;  and  he'll  sign  anything  to  get  it, 
without  in  the  least  understanding  it,  or  intending  to 
carry  out  the  agreement  if  it  turns  out  badly  for  him.  In 
fact,  he  thinks  you  a  cad  if  you  ask  him  to  carry  it  out 
under  such  circumstances.  Just  like  the  Merchant  of 
Venice,  you  know.  But  if  a  Jew  makes  an  agreement,  he 
means  to  keep  it  and  expects  you  to  keep  it.  If  he  wants 
money  for  a  time,  he  borrows  it  and  knows  he  must  pay 


52  The  Doctor's  Dilemma        Act  II 

it  at  the  end  of  the  time.  If  he  knows  he  cant  pay,  he 
begs  it  as  a  gift. 

RiDGEON.  Come,  Loony !  do  you  mean  to  say  that 
Jews  are  never  rogues  and  thieves  ? 

ScHUTZMAciiER.  Oh,  uot  at  all.  But  I  was  not  talk- 
ing of  criminals.  I  w.ls  comparing  honest  Englishmen 
with  honest  Jews. 

One  of  the  hotel  maids,  a  pretty,  fair-haired  ivoman  of 
about  25,  comes  from  the  hotel,  rather  furtively.  She 
accosts  liidi^con. 

TnK   Maid.      I  beg  your  jiardon,  sir — 

RiDGEON.       Eh.'' 

The  Maid.  I  beg  pardon,  sir.  It's  not  about  the 
hotel.  I'm  not  allowed  to  be  on  the  terrace^  and  I  should 
be  discharged  if  I  were  seen  speaking  to  you,  unless  you 
were  kind  enough  to  say  you  called  me  to  ask  whether 
the  motor  lias  come  back  from  the  station  yet. 

Walpoi-e.     Has  it.'* 

The   Maid.     Yes,  sir. 

RiDGEON.      Well,  what  do  you  want.^ 

The  Maid.  Would  you  mind,  sir,  giving  me  the  ad- 
dress of  the  gentleman  that  was  with  you  at  dinner? 

RiDGEON  [sharply]  Yes,  of  course  I  should  mind 
very  nmch.     You  have  no  right  to  ask. 

The  Maid.  Yes,  sir,  I  know  it  looks  like  that.  But 
what  am  I  to  do? 

SiH   Pathick.     Whats  the  matter  with  you? 

The  Maid.  Nothing,  sir.  I  want  tlie  address:  thata 
aU. 

B.  B.     You  mean  the  young  gentleman? 

The  Maid.  Yes,  sir:  that  went  to  catch  the  train 
with  the  woman  he  brought  with  him. 

RiDGEON.  The  woman  I  Do  you  mean  the  lady  who 
dined  here?  the  gentleman's  wife? 

The  Maid.  Dont  believe  them,  sir.  She  cant  be  his 
wife.     I'm  his  wife. 


Act  II        The  Doctor's  Dilemma  53 

If  [in  amazed  remonstrance^    My  good  girl ! 

^•^-  J    You  his  wife! 

RiDGEON    M    ^yjj^^j  ^.,,^^^  jj^^^p     Qj^^  jjjjg  jg  getting 

ALPOLE  J  ^        perfectly  fascinating,  Ridgeon. 

The  Maid.  I  could  run  upstairs  and  get  you  my 
marriage  lines  in  a  minute,  sir,  if  you  doubt  my  word. 
He's  Mr  Louis  Dubedat,  isnt  he? 

Ridgeon.     Yes. 

The  Maid.  Well,  sir,  you  may  believe  me  or  not;  but 
I'm  the  lawful  Mrs  Dubedat. 

Sm  Patrick.  And  why  arnt  you  living  with  your 
Iiusband.'' 

The  Maid.  We  couldnt  afiford  it,  sir.  I  had  thirty 
pounds  saved ;  and  we  spent  it  all  on  our  honeymoon  in 
three  weeks,  and  a  lot  more  that  he  borrowed.  Then  I 
had  to  go  back  into  service,  and  he  went  to  London  to 
get  work  at  his  drawing;  and  he  never  wrote  me  a  line 
or  sent  me  an  address.  I  never  saw  nor  heard  of  him 
again  until  I  caught  sight  of  him  from  the  window  going 
off  in  the  motor  with  that  woman. 

Sir   Patrick.     \\'c11,  thats  two  wives  to  start  with. 

B.  B.  Now  upon  my  soul  I  dont  want  to  be  unchari- 
table;  but  really  I'm  beginning  to  suspect  that  our  young 
friend  is  rather  careless. 

Sir  Patrick.  Beginning  to  think  I  How  long  will  it 
take  you,  man,  to  find  out  that  he's  a  damned  young 
blackguard  ? 

Blenkinsop.  Oh,  thats  severe.  Sir  Patrick,  very  se- 
vere. Of  course  it's  bigamy;  but  still  he's  very  voung; 
and  she's  very  pretty.  Mr  Walpole:  may  I  spunge  on 
you  for  another  of  those  nice  cigarets  of  yours  ?  [He 
changes  his  seat  for  the  one  next   JValpole]. 

Walpole.  Certainly.  [He  feels  in  his  pockets^. 
Oh  bother!  Wliere — }  [Suddenly  remembering]  I  say: 
I  recollect  now :  I  passed  my  cigaret  case  to  Dubedat  and 
he  didnt  return  it.     It  was  a  gold  one. 


54 


The  Doctor's  Dilemma       Act  II 


The  Maid.  He  didnt  mean  any  harm:  he  never  thinks 
about  things  like  that,  sir.  I'll  get  it  back  for  you,  sir, 
if  youll  tell  me  where  to  find  him. 

RiDGEON.  What  am  I  to  do.^  Shall  I  give  her  the 
address  or  not? 

Sir  Patrick.  Give  her  your  own  address ;  and  then 
we'll  see.  [To  the  moid]  Youll  have  to  be  content  with 
that  for  the  present,  my  girl.  [Ridgeon  gives  her  his 
card].     \\  hats  your  name.^ 

The   Maid.      Minnie  TinwcU,  sir. 

Sir  P.vtrick.  Well,  you  write  him  a  letter  to  care  of 
this  gentleman ;  and  it  will  be  sent  on.  Now  be  off  with 
you. 

The  Maid.  Thank  you,  sir.  I'm  «ur*  you  wouidnt 
sec  UK-  wronged.  Thank  you  all,  gentlemen;  and  excuse 
the  liberty. 

She  goes  into  the  hotel.     They  natch  her  in  silence^ 

Ridgeon  [wheji  she  is  gone]  Do  you  realize,  you 
chaps,  that  we  have  promised  Mrs  Dubedat  to  save  this 
fellow's  life.'* 

Blenkixsop.     \Miats  the  matter  with  him? 

Ridgeon.     Tuberculosis. 

Blenkinsop    [interested]      And  can  you  cure  that? 

Ridgeon.     I  believe  so. 

Blenkinsop.  Then  I  wish  youd  cure  me.  My  right 
lung  is  touched,  I'm  sorry  to  say. 


Ridgeon          '' 

'What!  your  lung  is 
going ! 

B.  B. 

My  dear  Blenkinsop,  what 
do  you   tell  me?    [full 

[all 

of   concern   for  Blenk- 

together] 

insop,  lie  comes  hack 
from  the  balustrade] . 

Sir  Patrick 

Eh?     Eh?  whats  that? 

W^ALPOLE 

Hullo !    you    mustnt    ne- 

glect this,  you  know. 

Act  II        The  Doctor's  Dilemma  55 

Blenkinsop  [putting  his  fingers  in  his  ears]  No,  no: 
it's  no  use.  I  know  what  ^'oure  going  to  say:  Ive  said  it 
often  to  others.  I  cant  afford  to  take  care  of  myself;  and 
theres  an  end  of  it.  If  a  fortnight's  holiday  would  save 
my  life,  I'd  have  to  die.  I  shall  get  on  as  others  have 
to  get  on.  We  cant  all  go  to  St  Moritz  or  to  Egypt,  you 
know,  Sir  Ralph.     Dont  talk  about  it. 

Emharrassed  silence. 

Sir  PATRic|i  [grunts  and  looks  hard  at  Ridgeon]  ! 

ScHUTZMACHER  [looJeiug  at  his  watch  and  rising] 
I  must  go.  It's  been  a  very  pleasant  evening, 
Colly.  You  might  let  me  have  my  portrait  if  you  dont 
mind.  I'll  send  Mr  Dubedat  that  couple  of  sovereigns 
for  it. 

Ridgeon  [giving  him  the  menu  card\  Oh  dont  do 
that,  Loony.     I  don't  think  he'd  like  that. 

ScHUTZMACHER.  Well,  of  coursc  I  shant  if  j'ou  feel 
that  way  about  it.  But  I  dont  think  you  understand 
Dubedat.  However,  perhaps  thats  because  I'm  a  Jew. 
Good-night,  Dr  Blenkinsop  [shaking  hands] . 

Blenkinsop.     Good-night,  sir — I  mean — Good-night. 

ScHUTZMACHER  [rvuviiig  his  hand  to  the  rest]  Good- 
night,  everybody. 

W^ALPOLE 

B.  B. 

Sir  Patrick 

Ridgeon 

B.  B.  repeats  the  salutation  several  times,  in  varied 
musical  tones.     Schutzmacher  goes  out. 

Sir  Patrick.  It's  time  for  us  all  to  move.  [He  rises 
and  comes  between  Blenkinsop  and  Walpole.  Ridgeon 
also  rises].  Mr  Walpole:  take  Blenkinsop  home:  he's 
had  enough  of  the  open  air  cure  for  to-night.  Have 
you  a  thick  overcoat  to  wear  in  the  motor,  Dr  Blenkin- 
sop? 

Blenkinsop.     Oh,  theyll  give  me  some  brown  paper 


Good-night. 


56  The  Doctor's  Dilemma       Act  II 

in  the  hotel ;  and  a  few  thicknesses  of  brown  paper  across 
the  chest  are  better  than  any  fur  coat. 

Walpole.  Well,  come  along.  Good-night,  Colly. 
Youre  coming  with  us,  arnt  you,  B.  B..^ 

B.  B.  Yes:  I'm  coming.  [JValpole  and  Blenkinsop 
go  into  the  hotel].  Good-night,  my  dear  Ridgeon  [shak- 
ing hands  affectionately].  Dont  let  us  lose  sight  of  your 
interesting  patient  and  his  very  charming  wife.  We  must 
not  judge  him  too  hastily,  you  know.  [With  unction] 
Gooooooood-night,  Paddy.  Bless  you,  dear  old  chap. 
[Sir  Patrick  utters  a  formidable  grunt.  B.  B.  laughs  and 
pats  him  indulgently  on  the  shoulder]  Good-night. 
Good-night.  Good-night.  Good-night.  [He  good-nights 
himself  into  the  hotel].  • 

The  others  have  meann-hile  gone  without  ceremony. 
Ridgeon  and  Sir  Patrick  are  left  alone  together.  Rid- 
geon, deep  in  thought,  comes  donn  to  Sir  Patrick. 

Sir  P.\trick.  Well,  Mr  Savior  of  Lives:  which  is  it 
to  be?  that  honest  decent  man  Blenkinsop,  or  that  rotten 
blackguard  of  an  artist,  eh.^ 

Ridgeon.  It's  not  an  easy  case  to  judge,  is  it.^ 
Blenkinsop's  an  honest  decent  man;  but  is  he  any  use? 
Dubedat's  a  rotten  blackguard;  but  he's  a  genuine  source 
of  pretty  and  pleasant  and  good  things. 

Sir  Patrick.  What  will  he  be  a  source  of  for 
that  poor  innocent  wife  of  his,  when  she  finds  him 
out? 

RiDGEOx.     Thats  true.     Her  life  will  be  a  hell. 

Sir  Patrick.  And  tell  me  this.  Suppose  you  had 
this  choice  put  before  you:  either  to  go  through  life  and 
find  all  the  pictures  bad  but  all  the  men  and  women 
good,  or  to  go  through  life  and  find  all  the  pictures  good 
and  all  the  men  and  women  rotten.  Which  would  you 
choose  ? 

RiDGEox.  Thats  a  devilishly  difficult  question,  Paddy. 
The  pictures  are  so  agreeable,  and  the  good  people  so 


Act  II        The  Doctor's  Dilemma  57 

infernally  disagreeable  and  mischievous,  that  I  really- 
cant  undertake  to  say  offhand  which  I  should  prefer  to 
do  without. 

Sir  Patrick.  Come  come !  none  of  your  cleverness 
with  me:  I'm  too  old  for  it.  Blenkinsop  isnt  that  sort 
of  good  man;  and  you  know  it. 

RiDGEON.  It  would  be  simpler  if  Blenkinsop  could 
paint  Dubedat's  pictures. 

Sir  Patrick.  It  would  be  simpler  still  if  Dubedat 
had  some  of  Blenkinsop's  honesty.  The  world  isnt  going 
to  be  made  simple  for  you,  my  lad:  you  must  take  it  as 
it  is.  Youve  to  hold  the  scales  between  Blenkinsop  and 
Dubedat.     Hold  them  fairly. 

RiDGEON.  Well,  I'll  be  as  fair  as  I  can.  I'll  put  into 
one  scale  all  the  pounds  Dubedat  has  borrowed,  and  into 
the  other  all  the  half-crowns  that  Blenkinsop  hasnt  bor- 
rowed. 

Sir  Patrick.  And  youll  take  out  of  Dubedat's  scale 
all  the  faith  he  has  destroyed  and  the  honor  he  has  lost, 
and  youll  put  into  Blenkinsop's  scale  all  the  faith  he  has 
justified  and  the  honor  he  has  created. 

RiDGEON.  Come  come,  Paddy !  none  of  your  claptrap 
with  me:  I'm  too  sceptical  for  it.  I'm  not  at  all  con- 
vinced that  the  world  wouldnt  be  a  better  world  if  every- 
body behaved  as  Dubedat  does  than  it  is  now  that  every- 
body behaves  as  Blenkinsop  docs. 

Sir  Patrick.  Then  why  dont  you  behave  as  Dube- 
dat does  ? 

RiDGEON.  Ah,  that  beats  me.  Thats  the  experimental 
test.  Still,  it's  a  dilemma.  It's  a  dilemma.  You  see 
theres  a  complication  we  havnt  mentioned. 

Sir   Patrick.     Whats  that? 

RiDGEON.  Well,  if  I  let  Blenkinsop  die,  at  least  no- 
body can  say  I  did  it  because  I  wanted  to  marry  his 
widow. 

Sir  Patrick.     Eh?    ^^^lats  that.^ 


58  The  Doctor's  Dilemma        Act  II 

RiDGEON.  Now  if  I  let  Dubedat  die,  I'll  marry  his 
widow. 

Sir  Patrick.      Perhaps  she  wont  have  you,  you  know. 

RiDGEON  [with  a  self-assured  shake  of  the  head]  I've 
a  pretty  good  flair  for  that  sort  of  tiling.  I  know  when 
a  woman  is  interested  in  me.     She  is. 

Sir  P.4TRICK.  Well,  sometimes  a  man  knows  best; 
and  sometimes  he  knows  worst.  Youd  much  better  cure 
them  both. 

RiDGEON.  I  cant.  I'm  at  my  limit.  I  can  squeeze  in 
one  more  case,  but  not  two.     I  nmst  choose. 

Sir  Patrick.  Well,  you  must  choose  as  if  she  didnt 
exist:  thats  clear. 

RiDGEON.  Is  that  clear  to  you.''  Min^:  it's  not  clear 
to  me.     She  troubles  my  judgment. 

Sir  Patrick.  To  me,  it's  a  plain  choice  between  a 
man  and  a  lot  of  pictures. 

RiuoEoN.  It's  easier  to  replace  a  dead  man  than  a 
good  picture. 

Sir  Patrick.  Colly:  when  you  live  in  an  age  that 
runs  to  pictures  and  statues  and  plays  and  brass  bands 
because  its  men  and  women  are  not  good  enough  to  com- 
fort its  poor  aching  soul,  you  should  thank  Providence 
that  you  belong  to  a  profession  which  is  a  high  and  great 
profession  because  its  business  is  to  heal  and  mend  men 
and  women. 

RiDGEON.  In  short,  as  a  member  of  a  high  and  great 
profession,  I'm  to  kill  my  patient. 

Sir  Patrick.  Dont  talk  wicked  nonsense.  You  cant 
kill  him.     But  you  can  leave  him  in  other  hands. 

RiDGEOx.  In  B.  B.'s,  for  instance:  eh.''  [looking  at 
him   significantlij\ . 

Sir  Patrick  [demurely  facing  his  look]  Sir  Ralph 
Bloomfield  Bonington  is  a  very  eminent  physician. 

RiDGEON.     He  is. 

Sir  Patrick.     I'm  going  for  my  hat. 


Act  II        The  Doctor's  Dilemma  59 

Ridgeon  strikes  the  hell  as  Sir  Patrick  makes  for  the 
hotel.     A  waiter  comes. 

Ridgeon  [to  the  tvaiter]      My  bill,  please. 
Waiter.     Yes,  sir. 
He  goes  for  it. 


ACT    III 

In  Duhedat's  studio.  J'ierved  from  the  large  window 
the  outer  door  is  in  the  wall  on  the  left  at  the  near  end. 
The  door  leading  to  the  inner  rooms  is  in  the  opposite 
wall,  at  the  far  end.  The  facing  wall  has  neither  window 
nor  door.  The  plaster  on  all  the  walls  is  uncovered  and 
undecorated.  except  by  scrawlings  of  charcoal  sketches 
and  memoranda.  There  is  a  studio  throne  (a  chair  on  a 
dais)  a  little  to  the  left,  opposite  the  inner  door,  and  an 
easel  to  the  right,  opposite  the  outer  door,  with  a  dilapi- 
dated chair  at  it.  Xear  the  easel  and  against  the  wall  is 
a  hare  wooden  table  with  bottles  and  jars  of  oil  and  me- 
dium, paint-smudged  rags,  tubes  of  color,  brushes,  char- 
coal, a  small  lay  figure,  a  kettle  and  spirit-lamp,  and 
other  odds  and  ends.  By  the  table  is  a  sofa,  littered  with 
drawing  blocks,  sketch-books,  loose  sheets  of  paper,  news- 
papers, books,  and  more  smudged  rags.  Next  the  outer 
door  is  an  umbrella  and  hat  stand,  occupied  partly  by 
Louis'  hats  and  cloak  and  muffler,  and  partly  by  odds 
and  ends  of  costumes.  There  is  an  old  piano  stool  on  the 
near  side  of  this  door.  In  the  corner  near  the  inner  door 
is  a  little  tea-table.  A  lay  figure,  in  a  cardinal's  robe  and 
hat,  with  an  hour-glass  in  one  hand  and  a  scythe  slung 
on  its  back,  smiles  with  inane  malice  at  Louis,  who,  in 
a  rnilkman's  smock  much  smudged  with  colors,  is  painting 
a  piece  of  brocade  which  he  has  draped  about  his  wife. 
She  is  sitting  on  the  throne,  not  interested  in  the  paint- 

60 


Act  III      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  61 

ing,  and  appealing  to  him  very  anxiously  about  another 
matter. 

Mrs  Dubedat.     Promise. 

Louis  [putting  on  a  touch  of  paint  nith  notable  skill 
and  care  and  answering  quite  perfunctorily]  I  promise, 
my  darling. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  When  you  want  money,  you  will  al- 
ways come  to  me. 

Louis.  But  it's  so  sordid,  dearest.  I  hate  money.  I 
cant  keep  always  bothering  you  for  money,  money, 
money.  Thats  what  drives  me  sometimes  to  ask  other 
people,  though  I  hate  doing  it. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  It  is  far  better  to  ask  me,  dear.  It 
gives  people  a  wrong  idea  of  you. 

Louis.  But  I  want  to  spare  your  little  fortune,  and 
raise  money  on  my  own  work.  Dont  be  unhappy,  love : 
I  can  easily  earn  enough  to  pay  it  all  back.  I  shall  have 
a  one-man-show  next  season ;  and  then  there  will  be  no 
more  money  troubles.  [Putting  down  his  palette'\ 
There !  I  mustnt  do  any  more  on  that  until  it's  bone-dry ; 
so  you  may  come  down. 

Mrs  Dubedat  [throwing  off  the  drapery  as  she  steps 
down,  and  revealing  a  plain  frock  of  tussore  silk] 
But  you  have  promised,  remember,  seriously  and  faith- 
fully, never  to  borrow  again  until  you  have  first  asked 
me. 

Louis.  Seriously  and  faithfully.  [Embracing  her] 
Ah,  my  love,  how  right  you  are !  how  much  it  means  to 
me  to  have  you  by  me  to  guard  me  against  living  too 
much  in  the  skies.  On  my  solemn  oath,  from  this  moment 
forth  I  will  never  borrow  another  penny. 

Mrs  Dubedat  [delighted]  Ah,  thats  right.  Does  his 
wicked  worrying  wife  torment  him  and  drag  him  down 
from  the  clouds.  [She  kisses  him].  And  now,  dear, 
wont  you  finish  those  drawings  for  Maclean? 


62  The  Doctor's  Dilemma     Act  III 

Louis.  Oh,  they  dont  matter.  Ive  got  nearly  all  the 
money  from  him  in  advance. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  But,  dearest,  that  is  just  the  reason 
•why  you  should  finish  them.  He  asked  me  the  other  day 
whether  you  really  intended  to  finish  them. 

Louis.  Confound  his  impudence!  What  th«"  devil 
does  he  take  mc  for?  Now  that  just  destroys  all  my  in- 
terest in  the  beastly  job.  Ive  a  good  mind  to  throw  up 
the  commission,  and  pay  him  back  his  money. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  We  cant  afford  that,  dear.  You  had 
better  finish  the  drawings  and  have  done  with  them.  I 
think  it  is  a  mistake  to  accept  money  in  advance. 

Louis.      But  how  arc  wc  to  live? 

Mrs  Dudedat.  Well,  Louis,  it  is  gettir\g  hard  enough 
as  it  is,  now  that  they  are  all  refusing  to  pay  except  on 
delivery, 

Louis.  Damn  those  fellows!  they  think  of  nothing 
and  care  for  nothing  but  their  wretched  money. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  Still,  if  they  pay  us,  they  ought  to 
have  what  they  pay  for. 

Louis  [coajring]  There  now:  thats  enough  lecturing 
for  to-day.     Ive  promised  to  be  g(M)d,  lii\:it  I? 

Mrs  Dubedat  [putting  her  arms  round  his  nec/c] 
You  know  that  I  hate  lecturing,  and  that  I  dont  for  a 
moment  misunderstand  you,  dear,  dont  you? 

Louis  {foucVy']  I  know.  I  know.  I'm  a  wretch; 
and  youre  an  angel.  Oh,  if  only  I  were  strong  enough 
to  work  steadily,  I'd  make  my  darling's  house  a  temple, 
and  lier  sliriue  a  chapel  more  beautiful  than  was  ever  im- 
agined. I  cant  pass  the  shops  witliout  wrestling  with 
the  tnnptaiion  to  go  in  and  order  all  the  really  good 
Lhings  they  have  for  you. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  I  want  nothing  but  you,  dear.  [She 
gives  him  a  caress,  io  irhich  he  responds  so  passionately 
that  she  diseng^ages  herself].  There!  be  good  now:  re- 
member tliat  the  doctors  are  coming  this  morning.     Isnt 


Act  III      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  63 

it  extraordinarily  kind  of  them,  Louis,  to  insist  on  com- 
ing? all  of  them,  to  consult  about  you? 

Louis  [coolli/]  Oh,  I  daresay  they  think  it  will  be  a 
feather  in  their  cap  to  cure  a  rising  artist.  They  wouldnt 
come  if  it  didnt  amuse  them,  anyhow.  [Someone  kvoi  ks 
at  the  char].     I  say:  it's  not  time  yet,  is  it? 

Mrs  Di'DEBAT.      No,  not  quite  yet. 

Louis  [opening  the  door  and  finding  Ridgeon  there] 
Hello,  Ridgeon.     Delighted  to  see  you.     Come  in. 

Mrs  Dudebat  [shaking  hands]  It's  so  good  of  you 
to  come,  doctor. 

Louis.  Excuse  this  place,  wont  you?  It's  only  a 
studio,  you  know:  theres  no  real  convenifmce  for  living 
here.     But  we  jn'g  along  somehow,  thank.s  to  Jennifer. 

Mrs  Durkijat.  Now  I'll  run  away.  Perhaps  later 
on,  when  youre  finished  with  Louis,  I  may  come  in  and 
hear  the  verdict.  [Ridgeon  bon-s  rather  const r at. ledly]. 
Would  you  rather  I  didnt? 

Ridgeon.     Not  at  all.     Not  at  all. 

Mrs  Dubedat  looks  at  him,  a  little  puzzled  by  his  for- 
vial  manner;  then  goes  into  the  inner  room. 

Louis  [flippantly]  I  say:  dont  look  so  grave.  Theres 
nothing  awful  going  to  happen,  is  there? 

Ridgeon.     No. 

Louis.  Thats  all  right.  Poor  Jennifer  has  been  look- 
ing forward  to  your  visit  more  than  you  can  imagine. 
Shes  taken  quite  a  fancy  to  you,  Ridgeon.  The  poor  girl 
has  nobody  to  talk  to:  I'm  always  painting.  [Taking  up 
a  sketch]     Theres  a  little  sketch  I  made  of  her  yesterday. 

Ridgeon.  She  shewed  it  to  me  a  fortnight  ago  when 
she  first  called  on  me. 

Louis  [quite  unabashed]  Oh!  did  she?  Good  Lord! 
how  time  does  fly!  I  could  have  sworn  I'd  only  just  fin- 
ished it.  It's  hard  for  her  here,  seeing  me  piling  up 
drawings  and  nothing  coming  in  for  them.  Of  course  I 
shall  sell  them  next  year  fast  enough,  after  my  one-man- 


64  The  Doctor's  Dilemma      Act  III 

show ;  but  while  the  grass  grows  the  steed  starves.  I  hate 
to  have  her  coming  to  me  for  money,  and  having  none 
to  give  her.     But  what  can  I  do? 

RiDGEON.  I  understood  tliat  Mrs  Dubedat  had  some 
property  of  her  own. 

Louis.  Oh  yes,  a  little;  but  how  could  a  man  with 
any  decency  of  feeling  touch  that?  Suppose  I  did,  what 
would  she  have  to  live  on  if  I  died?  I'm  not  insured: 
cant  afford  the  premiums.  [Picking  out  another  draw- 
ing]    How  do  you  like  that? 

RiDGEON  [putting  it  aside]  I  have  not  come  here  to- 
day to  look  at  your  drawings.  I  have  more  serious  and 
pressing  business  with  you. 

Loris.  You  want  to  sound  my  wretched  lung.  [With 
impulsive  candor]  My  dear  Ridgeon:  I'll  be  frank  with 
3'ou.  Whats  the  matter  in  this  house  isnt  lungs  but  bills. 
It  doesnt  matter  about  ine;  but  Jennifer  has  actually  to 
economize  in  the  matter  of  food.  Youvc  made  us  feel 
that  we  can  treat  you  as  a  friend.  Will  you  lend  us  a 
hundred  and  tifty  pounds? 

RiDGEON.       No. 

Loiis  [surprised]     Why  not? 

RiDGEON.  I  am  not  a  rich  man;  and  I  want  every 
penny  I  can  spare  and  more  for  my  researches. 

Loi'is.      You  mean  youd  want  the  money  back  again. 

RiDGEOx.  I  j)rcsume  people  sometimes  have  that  in 
view  when  they  lend  money. 

Louis  [after  a  moment's  reflection]  Well,  I  can  ma  i- 
age  that  for  you.  I'll  give  you  a  cheque — or  see  here: 
theres  no  reason  why  you  shouldnt  have  your  bit  too:  I'll 
give  you  a  cheque  for  two  hundred. 

RiDGEON.  Why  not  cash  the  cheque  at  once  without 
troubling  me? 

Louis.  Bless  you  I  they  wouldnt  cash  it:  I'm  over- 
drawn as  it  is.  No:  the  way  to  work  it  is  this.  I'll  post- 
date the   cheque  next   October.      In   October   Jennifer's 


Act  III      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  65 

dividends  come  in.  Well,  you  present  the  cheque.  It 
will  be  returned  marked  "  refer  to  drawer  "  or  some  rub- 
bish of  that  sort.  Then  you  can  take  it  to  Jennifer,  and 
hint  that  if  the  cheque  isnt  taken  up  at  once  I  shall  be 
put  in  prison.  She'll  pay  you  like  a  shot.  Youll  clear 
£.50;  and  youll  do  me  a  real  service;  for  I  do  want  the 
money  very  badly,  old  chap,  I  assure  you. 

RiUGEOx  [staii:-:g  at  him]  You  see  no  objection  to  the 
transaction;  and  you  anticipate  none  from  me! 

Louis.  Well,  what  objection  can  there  be?  It's  quite 
safe.     I  can  convince  you  about  the  dividends. 

RiDGEON.  I  mean  on  the  score  of  its  being — shall  I 
say  dishonorable.'' 

Louis.  Well,  of  course  I  shouldnt  suggest  it  if  I 
didnt  want  the  money. 

RiDGEON.  Indeed !  Well,  you  will  have  to  find  some 
other  means  of  getting  it. 

Louis.     Do  you  mean  that  you  refuse? 

RiDGEON.  Do  I  mean — !  [letting  his  indignation 
loosc^  Of  course  I  refuse,  man.  What  do  you  take  me 
for?     How  dare  you  make  such  a  proposal  to  me? 

Louis.     Why  not? 

RiDGEON.  P'augh !  You  would  not  understand  me  if 
I  tried  to  explain.  Now,  once  for  all,  I  will  not  lend  you 
a  farthing.  I  should  be  glad  to  help  your  wife;  but  lend- 
ing you  money  is  no  service  to  her. 

Louis.  Oh  well,  if  youre  in  earnest  about  helping  her, 
I'll  tell  you  what  you  might  do.  You  misrht  get  your 
patients  to  buy  some  of  my  things,  or  to  give  me  a  few 
portrait  commissions. 

RiDGEON.  My  patients  call  me  in  as  a  physician,  not 
as  a  commercial  traveller. 

A  knock  at  the  door.  Louis  goes  unconcernedly  to 
open  it,  pursuing  the  subject  as  he  goes. 

Louis.  But  you  must  have  great  influence  with  them. 
You  must  know  such  lots  of  things  about  them — private 


66  The  Doctor's  Dilemma     Act  III 

things  that  they  wouldnt  like  to  have  known.  They 
wouldnt  dare  to  refuse  you. 

RrooEON    [explodhig]     Well,  upon  my — 

Louis  opens  the  door,  and  admits  Sir  Patrick,  Sir 
Ralph,  and  ^Vaipole. 

RiDGEON  [proceeding  furiously'\  Walpole:  Ive  been 
here  hardly  ten  minutes ;  and  already  he's  tried  to  borrow 
,£150  from  me.  Then  he  pro])osed  that  I  should  get  the 
money  for  him  by  blackmailing  his  wife;  and  youve  just 
interrupted  him  in  the  act  of  suggesting  that  I  should 
blackmail  my  patients  into  sitting  to  him  for  their  por- 
traits. 

Louis.  Well,  liidgeon.  if  this  is  what  you  call  being 
an  lionorable  man !     I  spoke  to  you  in  \;onfidence. 

Sir  Patrick.  We're  all  going  to  speak  to  you  in  con- 
fidence, joung  man. 

W'.VLPOLE  [hanging  his  liat  on  the  onJi)  peg  left  vacant 
on  the  hat-stand]  We  shall  make  ourselves  at  home  for 
half  an  hour,  Dubedat.  Dont  be  alarmed:  youre  a  most 
fascinating  chap ;  and  we  love  you. 

Louis.  Oh,  all  right,  all  right.  Sit  down — anywhere 
you  can.  Take  this  chair,  Sir  Patrick  [indicating  the 
one  on  the  throne].  Up-z-z-z !  [helping  him  up:  Sir 
Patrick  grunts  and  enthrones  himself].  Here  you  are, 
B.  B.  [Sir  Ralph  glares  at  the  familiarity;  but  Louis, 
quite  undisturbed,  puts  a  big  book  and  a  sofa  cushion  on 
the  dais,  on  Sir  Patrick's  rigid;  and  B.  B.  sits  down, 
under  protest].  Let  me  take  your  hat.  [He  takes  B. 
B.'s  hat  unceremoniously,  and  substitutes  it  for  the  car- 
dinal's hat  on  the  head  of  the  lay  figure,  thereby  ingeni- 
ously destroying  the  dignity  of  the  conclave.  He  then 
draws  the  piano  stool  from  the  rrall  and  offers  it  to  Wal- 
pole]. You  dont  mind  this.  Walpole,  do  you.''  [Walpole 
accepts  the  stool,  and  puts  his  hand  into  his  pocket  for 
his  cigaret  case.  Missing  it,  he  is  reminded  of  his 
loss]. 


Act  III      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  67 

Walpole.  By  the  way,  I'll  trouble  you  for  my  ciga- 
ret  case,  if  you  dont  mind? 

Louis.      What  cigaret  case? 

Walpole.  The  gold  one  I  lent  you  at  the  Star  and 
Garter. 

Louis  [surprised]      Was  that  yours? 

Walpole.     Yes. 

Louis.  I'm  awfully  sorry,  old  chap.  I  wondered 
whose  it  was.  I'm  sorry  to  say  this  is  all  thats  left  of  it. 
[He  hitches  tip  his  smock;  produces  a  card  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket;  and  hands  it  to   Walpole], 

Walpole.      A  pa^m  ticket! 

Louis  [reassuringly']  It's  quite  safe:  be  cant  sell  it 
for  a  year,  you  know.  I  say,  my  dear  Walpole,  I  am 
sorr}'.  [He  places  his  hand  ingenuoiisly  on  JValpole's 
shoulder  and  looks  frankly  at  him], 

Walpole  [sinking  on  the  stool  n-ith  a  gasp]  Dont 
mention  it.     It  adds  to  your  fascination. 

RiDGEON  [nho  has  been  standing  near  the  easel]  Be- 
fore we  go  any  further,  you  have  a  debt  to  pay,  Mr 
Dubedat. 

Louis.  I  have  a  precious  lot  of  debts  to  pay,  Ridgeon. 
I'll  fetch  you  a  chair.     [He  makes  for  the  inner  door]. 

RiDGEON  [stopping  him]  You  sliall  not  le.ave  the 
room  until  you  pay  it.  It's  a  small  one;  and  i)ay  it  you 
must  and  sliall.  I  dont  so  much  mind  your  borrowing 
,£10  from  one  of  my  guests  and  £20  from  the  other— 

Walpole.      I  v.alked  into  it,  you  know.     I  offered  it. 

Ridgeon.  — they  could  afford  it.  But  to  clean  poor 
Blenkinsop  out  of  his  last  half-crown  was  damnable.  I 
intend  to  give  him  that  half-crown  and  to  be  in  a  position 
to  pledge  him  my  word  that  you  paid  it.  I'll  have  that 
out  of  you,  at  all  events. 

B.  B.  Quite  right,  Ridgeon.  Quite  right.  Come, 
young  man !  down  with  the  dust.      Pay  up. 

Louis.      Oh,   you  neednt   make  such   a   fuss   about   it. 


68  The  Doctor's  Dilemma     Act  III 

Of  course  I'll  pay  it.  I  had  no  idea  the  poor  fellow  was 
hnrd  up.  I'm  as  shocked  as  any  of  you  about  it.  [Put- 
ting his  hand  into  his  pocket]  Here  you  are.  [Finding 
his  pocket  empty]  Oh,  I  say,  I  havnt  any  money  on  me 
just  at  present.  Walpole:  would  you  mind  lending  me 
half-a-crown  just  to  settle  this. 

Walpole.     Lend  you  half —  [his  voice  faints  away]. 

Loris.  Well,  if  you  dont,  Blenkinsop  wont  get  it; 
for  I  havnt  a  rap:  you  may  search  my  pockets  if  you  like. 

Walpole.  Thats  conclusive.  [He  produces  half-a- 
crown]. 

Loris  [passing  it  to  Ridgeon]  There!  I'm  really 
glad  thats  settled:  it  was  the  only  thing  that  was  on  my 
conscience.     Now  I  hope  youre  all  satisfied. 

Sm  Patrick.  Not  quite,  Mr  Dubedat.  Do  you  hap- 
pen to  know  a  young  woman  named  Minnie  Tinwell.'' 

Lorus.  Minnie!  I  should  think  I  do;  and  Minnie 
knows  me  too.  She's  a  really  nice  good  girl,  considering 
her  station.     Whats  become  of  lurr 

Walpole.  It's  no  use  bluffing,  Dubedat.  Weve 
seen  Minnie's  marriage  lines. 

Louis   [coolly]     Indeed.''     Have  you  seen  Jennifer's.^ 

Ridgeon  [rising  in  irrepressible  rage]  Do  you  dare 
insinuate  that  Mrs  Dubedat  is  living  with  you  without 
being  married  to  you.'' 

Loris.     Why  not? 

B.   B.  ^    [echoing  him  in    f  Why  not! 

Sir  Patrick  I  various  tones  of   I  Why  not! 

Ridgeon  scandalized       ]  Why  not! 

Walpole         J       amazement]      I  Why  not! 

Louis.  Yes,  why  not.^  Lots  of  people  do  it:  just  as 
good  people  as  you.  Why  dont  you  learn  to  think,  in- 
stead of  bleating  and  baahing  like  a  lot  of  sheep  when 
you  come  up  against  anything  youre  not  accustomed  to? 
[Contemplating  their  amazed  faces  with  a  chuckle]  I 
say:  I  should  like  to  draw  the  lot  of  you  now:  you  do 


Act  III      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  69 

look  jolly  foolish.  Especially  you,  Ridgeon.  I  had  you 
that  time,  you  know. 

Ridgeon.     How,  pray.'' 

Louis.  Well,  you  set  up  to  appreciate  Jennifer,  you 
know.     And  you  despise  me,  dont  you.'' 

Ridgeon  [curtly]  I  loathe  you.  [He  sits  dorm  again 
on   the  sofa]. 

Louis.  Just  so.  And  yet  you  believe  that  Jennifer 
is  a  bad  lot  because  you  think  I  told  you  so. 

Ridgeon,     Were  you  lying.'' 

Louis.  No;  but  you  were  smelling  out  a  scandal  in- 
stead of  keeping  your  mind  clean  and  wholesome.  I  can 
just  play  with  people  like  you.  I  only  asked  you  had 
you  seen  Jennifer's  marriage  lines;  and  you  concluded 
straiglit  away  that  she  hadnt  got  any.  You  dont  know 
a  lady  when  you  see  one. 

B.  B.  [majestically]  What  do  you  mean  bv  that,  may 
I  ask? 

Louis.  Now,  I'm  only  an  immoral  artist;  but  if 
youd  told  me  that  Jennifer  wasnt  married,  I'd  have  had 
the  gentlemanly  feeling  and  artistic  instinct  to  say  that 
she  carried  her  marriage  certificate  in  her  face  and  in  her 
character.  But  you  are  all  moral  men;  and  Jennifer  is 
only  an  artist's  wife — probably  a  model;  and  morality 
consists  in  suspecting  other  people  of  not  being  legally 
married.  Arnt  you  ashamed  of  yourselves?  Can  one  of 
you  look  me  in  the  face  after  it? 

Walpole.  It's  very  hard  to  look  you  in  the  face, 
Dubedat;  you  have  such  a  dazzling  cheek.  What  about 
Minnie  Tinwell,  eh? 

Louis.  Minnie  Tinwell  is  a  young  woman  who  has 
had  three  weeks  of  glorious  happiness  in  her  poor  little 
life,  which  is  more  than  most  girls  in  her  position  get,  I 
can  tell  you.  Ask  her  whether  she'd  take  it  back  if  she 
could.  She's  got  her  name  into  history,  that  girl.  My 
little  sketches  of  her  will  be  fought  by  collectors  at  Chris- 


70  The  Doctor's  Dilemma     Act  III 

tie's.  She'll  have  a  page  in  my  biography.  Pretty  goed, 
that,  for  a  still-room  maid  at  a  seaside  hotel,  I  think. 
What  have  you  fellows  done  for  her  to  compare  with 
that  > 

RiDGEox.  We  havnt  trapped  her  into  a  mock  mar- 
riage and  deserted  her. 

Louis.  No:  you  wouldnt  have  the  pluck.  But  dont 
fuss  yourselves.  /  didnt  desert  little  Minnie.  We  spent 
all  our  money — 

W.vLPOLE.      All  her  money.     Thirty  pounds. 

Louis.  I  said  all  our  money:  -liers  and  mine  too. 
Her  thirty  pounds  didnt  last  three  days.  I  had  to  bor- 
row four  times  as  nmch  to  spend  on  her.  But  I  didnt 
grudge  it;  and  she  didnt  grudge  her  few , pounds  either, 
the  brave  little  lassie,  ^^'ilen  we  were  cleaned  out,  we'd 
had  enougli  of  it :  you  can  hardly  suppose  that  we  were 
fit  company  for  longer  than  that:  I  an  artist,  and  she 
quite  out  of  art  and  literature  and  refined  living  And— 
everythiug  else,  Tliere  was  no  desertion,  no  misunder- 
st.inding,  no  police  court  or  divorce  court  sensation  for 
you  moral  cliaps  to  lick  your  lips  over  at  breakfast.  We 
just  said.  Well,  the  money's  gone:  weve  had  a  good  time 
that  can  never  be  taken  from  us ;  so  kiss ;  part  good 
friends;  and  she  back  to  service,  and  I  back  to  my  studio 
and  my  Jennifer,  both  the  better  and  happier  for  our 
holiday. 

Walpole.      Quite  a  little  poem,  by  George! 

B.  B.  If  you  had  been  scientifically  trained,  Mr 
Dubedat,  you  would  know  how  very  seldom  an  actual 
case  bears  out  a  principle.  In  medical  practice  a  man 
may  die  when,  scientifically  speaking,  he  ought  to  have 
lived.  I  have  actually  known  a  man  die  of  a  disease 
from  which  he  was  scientifically  speaking,  immune.  But 
that  does  not  affect  the  fundamental  truth  of  science.  In 
just  the  same  way,  in  moral  cases,  a  man's  behavior  may 
be  quite  harmless  and  even  beneficial,  when  he  is  morally 


Act  III      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  71 

behaving  like  a  scoundrel.  And  he  may  do  great  harm 
when  he  is  morally  acting  on  the  highest  principles.  But 
that  docs  not  affect  the  fundamental  truth  of  morality. 

Sir  Patrick.  And  it  docsnt  affect  the  criminal  law 
on  the  subject  of  bigamy. 

Loris.  Oh  bigamy  I  bigam}' !  bigamj' !  What  a  fas- 
cination anything  connected  with  the  police  has  for  you 
all,  you  moralists !  Ive  proved  to  you  that  you  were  ut- 
terly wrong  on  the  moral  point:  now  I'm  going  to  shew 
you  that  youre  utterly  wrong  on  the  legal  point;  and  I 
ho})e  it  will  be  a  lesson  to  you  not  to  be  so  jolly  cocksure 
next  time. 

Walpole.  Rot !  You  were  married  already  when 
you  married  her;  and  that  settles  it. 

Louis.,  Does  it!  Why  cant  you  think.''  How  do 
you  know  she  wasnt  married  already  too.'* 


B.  B. 

RiDGEON 

Walpole 
Sir  Patrick 


[all 
crying 
out 
together] 


Walpole !     Ridgeon ! 
This  is  beyond  everything  ! 
Well,  damn  me  I 
You  young  rascal. 


Louis  [ignoring  their  outcry]  She  was  married  to  the 
steward  of  a  liner.  He  cleared  out  and  left  her ;  and  she 
thought,  poor  girl,  that  it  was  the  law  that  if  you  hadnt 
heard  of  your  husband  for  three  years  you  might  marry 
again.  So  as  she  was  a  thoroughly  respectable  girl  and 
refused  to  have  an}i;hing  to  say  to  me  unless  we  were 
married  I  went  through  the  ceremony  to  please  her  and 
to  preserve  her  self-respect. 

Ridgeon.  Did  you  tell  her  you  were  already  mar- 
ried? 

Louis.  Of  course  not.  Dont  you  see  that  if  she  had 
known,  she  wouldnt  have  considered  herself  my  wife.'' 
You  dont  seem  to  understand,  somehow. 

Sir  Patrick.  You  let  her  risk  imprisonment  in  her 
ignorance  of  the  law.^ 

Louis.     Well,  I  risked  imprisonment  for  her  sake.     I 


72  The  Doctor's  Dilemma      Act  III 

could  have  been  had  up  for  it  just  as  much  as  she.  But 
when  a  man  makes  a  sacrifice  of  that  sort  for  a  woman, 
he  doesnt  p^o  and  brag  about  it  to  her;  at  least,  not  if  he's 
a  gentleman. 

Wali'ole.      What  are  we  to  do  with  this  daisy.'' 

Louis  [impatientlt/]  Oh,  go  and  do  whatever  the  devil 
you  please.  Put  Minnie  in  prison.  Put  me  in  prison. 
Kill  Jennifer  with  the  disgrace  of  it  all.  And  then,  when 
youve  done  all  the  mischief  you  can,  go  to  church  and 
feel  good  about  it.  [lie  sits  down  pettishlif  on  the  old 
chair  at  the  easel,  and  takes  up  a  sketching  block,  on 
which  lie  begins  to  draw^ 

W'alpole.      He's  got  us. 

Sir   Patrick    [grimly]      He  has. 

B.  B.  But  is  he  to  be  allowed  to  defy  the  criminal 
law  of  the  land  ? 

Sir  Patrick.  The  criminal  law  is  no  use  to  decent 
people.  It  only  helps  blackguards  to  blackmail  their 
families.  What  are  we  family  doctors  doing  half  our 
time  but  conspiring  with  the  family  solicitor  to  keep  some 
rascal  out  of  jail  and  some  family  out  of  disgrace.'' 

B.   B.     But  at  least  it  will  punish  him. 

Sir  Patrick.  Oh,  yes:  itll  punish  him.  Itll  punish 
not  only  liim  but  everybody  connected  with  him,  inno- 
cent and  guilty  alike.  Itll  throw  his  board  and  lodging 
on  our  rates  and  taxes  for  a  couple  of  years,  and  tlien 
turn  him  loose  on  us  a  more  dangerous  blackguard  than 
ever.  Itll  put  the  girl  in  prison  and  ruin  her:  itll  lay  his 
wife's  life  waste.  You  may  put  the  criminal  law  out 
of  your  head  once  for  all:  it's  only  fit  for  fools  and 
savages. 

Louis.  Would  you  mind  turning  your  face  a  little 
more  this  way.  Sir  Patrick.  [Sir  Patrick  turns  indig- 
nantly and  glares  at  him].     Oh,  thats  too  much. 

Sir  Patrick.  Put  down  your  foolish  pencil,  man; 
and  think  of  your  position.     You  can  defy  the  laws  made 


Act  III     The  Doctor's  Dilemma  73 

by  men;  but  there  are  other  laws  to  reckon  with.  Do 
Tou  know  that  youre  going  to  die? 

Louis.      We're  all  going  to  die,  arnt  we.'' 

Walpole.     We're  not  all  going  to  die  in  six  months. 

Louis.     How  do  you  know? 

This  for  B.  B.  is  the  last  straw.  He  completely 
loses  his  temper  and  begins  to  walk  excitedly  about. 

B.  B.  Upon  my  soul,  I  will  not  stand  this.  It  is 
in  questionable  taste  under  any  circumstances  or  in 
any  company  to  harp  on  the  subject  of  death;  but  it 
is  a  dastardly  advantage  to  take  of  a  medical  man. 
[Thundering  at  Dubedat]  I  will  not  allow  it,  do  you 
hear  ? 

Louis.  Well,  I  didn't  begin  it:  you  chaps  did.  It's 
always  the  way  with  the  inartistic  professions :  when 
theyre  beaten  in  argument  they  fall  back  on  intimida- 
tion. I  never  knew  a  lawyer  who  didnt  threaten  to  put 
me  in  prison  sooner  or  later.  I  never  knew  a  parson 
who  didnt  threaten  me  with  damnation.  And  now  you 
threaten  me  with  death.  With  all  your  talk  youve  only 
one  real  trump  in  your  hand,  and  thats  Intimidation. 
Well,    I'm   not   a   coward;   so   it's   no   use   with   me. 

B.  B.  [advancing  upon  him]  I'll  tell  you  what  you 
are,  sir.     Youre  a  scoundrel. 

Louis.  Oh,  I  don't  mind  you  calling  me  a  scoundrel 
a  bit.  It's  only  a  word:  a  word  that  you  dont  know  the 
meaning  of.     What  is  a  scoundrel  ? 

B.  B.  You  are  a  scoundrel,  sir. 

Louis.  Just  so.  What  is  a  scoundrel?  I  am.  What 
am  I?  A  scoundrel.  It's  just  arguing  in  a  circle.  And 
you  imagine  youre  a  man  of  science ! 

B.  B.  I — I — I — I  have  a  good  mind  to  take  you  by 
the  scruff  of  your  neck,  you  infamous  rascal,  and  give 
you  a  sound  thrashing. 

Louis.  I  wish  you  would.  Youd  pay  me  something 
handsome  to  keep  it  out  of  court  afterwards.      [B.  B., 


74  The  Doctor's  Dilemma      Act  111 

baffled,  flings  an-ay  from  him  nnth  a  snort].  Have  you 
any  more  civilities  to  address  to  me  in  my  own  house? 
I  should  like  to  get  them  over  before  my  ■wife  eomes 
baek.      [lie  resumes  his  sicciching]. 

RiDGEON.  My  mind's  made  up.  When  the  law  breaks 
down,  honest  men  must  tind  a  remedy  for  themselves. 
I  will  not  lift  a  finger  to  save  this  reptile. 

B.  B.  That  is  the  word  I  was  trying  to  remember. 
Reptile. 

Wali'ole.  I  cant  help  rather  liking  you,  Dubedat. 
But  you  certainly  are  a  thoroughgoing  .specinun. 

Sir  Patuick.  You  kiiow  our  oj^inion  of  you  now,  at 
all  events. 

Loris  [patientli/  putting  down  his  peneil^  Look  here. 
All  this  is  no  good.  You  dont  understand.  You  imag- 
ine th.-it  I'm  simply  an  ordinary  criminal. 

Wali'ole.  Not  an  ordinary  one,  Dubedat.  Do  your- 
self justice. 

Lovis.  Well  youre  on  the  wrong  tack  altogether.  I'm 
not  a  criminal.  All  your  moralizings  have  no  value  for 
me.  I  don't  believe  in  morality.  I'm  a  disciple  of 
Bernard  Shaw. 

r  [puzzled]   Eh? 

Sir  Patrick     I  J    [tvaving  his   hand  as  if  the  subject 

B.    B.  tvere    now    disposed    of]       Thats 

1^       enough :   I   wish   to  hear   no  more. 

Lofis.  Of  course  I  ha%iit  the  ridiculous  vanity  to  set 
up  to  be  exactly  a  Superman ;  but  still,  it's  an  ideal  that 
I  strive  towards  just  as  any  other  man  strives  towards 
his  ideal. 

B.  B.  [intolerant]  Dont  trouble  to  explain.  I  now 
miderstand  you  }nrfeetly.  .*^ay  no  more,  please.  When 
a  man  pretends  to  discuss  science,  morals,  and  religion, 
and  then  avows  himself  a  follower  of  a  notorious  and 
avowed  anti-vaecinationist,  there  is  nothing  more  to  be 
said.      [Suddenly  putting  in  an  effusive  saving  clause  in 


Act  ITT      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  75 

parenthesis  to  Ridgeon]  Not,  my  dear  Ridgeon,  that 
I  believe  in  vaccination  in  the  popular  sense  any 
more  than  you  do:  I  neednt  tell  you  that.  But  tliere 
are  things  tliat  ])lace  a  man  socially;  and  anti-vacci- 
nation is  one  of  thciii.  [He  resumes  his  seat  on  the 
dais\. 

Sir  Patrick.  Bernard  Shaw?  I  never  heard  of  him. 
He's   a   Methodist  preacher,   I   suppose. 

Louis  \scaiidaliced]  No,  no.  He's  the  most  ad- 
vanced  man   now   living:   he   isn't   anvthing. 

Sir  Patrick.  I  assure  you,  young  man,  my  father 
learnt  the  doctrine  of  deliverance  from  sin  from  John 
Wesley's  own  lips  before  you  or  Mr.  Shaw  were  born. 
It  used  to  be  very  popular  as  an  excuse  for  putting  s.md 
in  sugar  and  water  in  milk.  Youre  a  sound  Methodist, 
my  lad;  only  you  don't  know  it. 

Loris  \srrioiisli/  annoyed  for  the  fi::tt  time]  It's  an 
intellectual  insult.  I  don't  believe  thercs  such  a  thing 
as   sin. 

Sir  Patrick.  Well,  sir,  there  are  people  who  dont 
believe  theres  such  a  thing  as  disease  either.  They  call 
themselves  Christian  Scientists,  I  believe.  Theyll  just 
suit  A'our  complaint.  We  can  do  nothing  for  you.  [He 
rises].     Good  afternoon  to  you. 

Loris  [running  to  him  piteously]  Oh  dont  get  up. 
Sir  Patrick.  Don't  go.  Please  dont.  I  didnt  mean  to 
shock  you,  on  my  word.  Do  sit  down  again.  Give  me 
another  chance.     Two  minutes  more :  thats  all  I   ask. 

Sir  Patrick  [surprised  hy  this  sign  of  grace,  and  a 
little  touched]      Well —     [He  sits  down]  — 

Lofis    \ gratefully]    Thanks    awfully. 

Sir  Patrick  [continuing]  — I  don't  mind  giving  you 
two  minutes  more.  But  dont  address  yourself  to  m^ ; 
for  Ive  retired  from  practice;  and  I  dont  pretend  to 
be  able  to  cure  your  complaint.  Your  life  is  in  the 
hands   of  these   gentlemen. 


76  The  Doctor's  Dilemma      Act  III 

RiDGEON.  Not  in  mine.  My  hands  are  full.  I  have 
no  time  and  no  means   available   for  this   case. 

Sir   Patrick.     What   do   you   say,   Mr.    Walpole? 

Walpole.  Oh,  I'll  take  him  in  hand:  I  dont  mind. 
I  feel  perfectly  convinced  that  this  is  not  a  moral  case 
at  r.W:  it's  a  physical  one.  Tliercs  something  abnormal 
about  his  brain.  That  means,  probably,  some  morbid 
condition  affecting  the  spinal  cord.  And  that  means  the 
circulation.  In  short,  it's  clear  to  me  that  he's  suffering 
from  an  obscure  form  of  blood-poisoning,  wliich  is  almost 
certainly  due  to  an  accumulation  of  ptomaines  in  tlie 
nuciform  sac.      I'll  remove  the  sac — 

Lor  IS  [changing  color]  Do  you  mean,  operate  on  me.'* 
Ugli !     No,  thank  you.  , 

Walpole.  Never  fear:  you  wont  feel  anything. 
Youll  be  under  an  anaesthetic,  of  course.  And  it  will  be 
extraordinarily  interesting. 

Louis.  Oh,  -well,  if  it  would  interest  you,  and  if  it 
wont  hurt,  thats  another  matter.  How  much  will  you 
give  me  to  let  you  do  it? 

Walpole  [rising  indignantly]  How  much!  What  do 
you  mean? 

Louis.  Well,  you  don't  expect  me  to  let  you  cut  me 
up  for  nothing,  do  you? 

Walpole.      Will  you  paint  my  portrait   for  nothing? 

Lor  is.  Xo;  but  I'll  give  you  the  portrait  when  it's 
painted;  and  you  can  sell  it  afterwards  for  perhaps 
double  the  money.  But  I  cant  sell  my  nuciform  sac 
when  3'ouve  cut  it  out. 

Walpole.  Ridgeon:  did  you  ever  hear  anything  like 
this!  [To  Louis]  Well,  you  can  keep  your  nuciform  sac, 
and  your  tubercular  lung,  and  your  diseased  brain:  Ive 
done  with  you.  One  would  think  I  was  not  conferring  a 
favor  on  the  fellow!  [He  returns  to  his  stool  in  high 
dudgeon]. 

Sir  Patrick.     That  leaves  only  one  medical  man  who 


Act  III      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  77 

has  not  withdrawn  from  your  case,  Mr.  Dubedat.  You 
have  nobody  left  to  appeal  to  now  but  Sir  Ralph  Bloom- 
field  Bonington. 

Walpole.  If  I  were  you,  B.  B.,  I  shouldnt  touch 
him  with  a  pair  of  tongas.  Let  him  take  his  lungs  to  the 
Bronipton  Hospital.  They  wont  cure  him;  but  theyll 
teach  him  manners. 

B.  B.  My  weakness  is  that  I  have  never  been  able  to 
say  No,  even  to  the  most  thorouglily  undeserving  peo- 
ple. Besides,  I  am  bound  to  say  that  I  dont  think  it 
is  possible  in  medical  practice  to  go  into  the  question 
of  the  value  of  the  lives  we  save.  Just  consider,  Ilidgeon. 
Let  me  put  it  to  you,  Paddy.  Clear  your  mind  of  cant, 
Walpole. 

Walpole   [indignantli/]      My  mind  is  clear  of  cant. 

B.  B.  Quite  so.  Well  now,  look  at  my  practice. 
It  is  what  I  suppose  you  would  call  a  fasliionable  prac- 
tice, a  smart  practice,  a  practice  among  the  best  people. 
You  ask  me  to  go  into  the  question  of  whether  my  pa- 
tients are  of  any  use  either  to  themselves  or  anj-one  else. 
Well,  if  you  apply  any  scientific  test  known  to  me,  you 
will  achieve  a  reductio  ad  absurdum.  You  will  be  driven 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  majority  of  them  would  be,  as 
my  friend  Mr  J.  M.  Barrie  has  tersely  phrased  it,  better 
dead.  Better  dead.  There  are  exceptions,  no  doubt. 
For  instance,  there  is  the  court,  an  essentially  social- 
democratic  institution,  supported  out  of  public  funds  by 
the  public  because  the  public  wants  it  and  likes  it.  My 
court  patients  are  hard-working  people  who  give  satis- 
faction, undoubtedly.  Then  I  have  a  duke  or  two  whose 
estates  are  probably  better  managed  than  they  would 
be  in  public  hands.  But  as  to  most  of  the  rest,  if  I  once 
began  to  argue  about  them,  unquestionably  the  verdict 
would  be.  Better  dead.  When  they  actually  do  die,  I 
sometimes  have  to  offer  that  consolation,  thinly  disguised, 
to  the  family.     [^Lulled  by  the  cadences  of  his  own  voice. 


78  /   The  Doctor's  Dilemma      Act  III 

he  becomes  drowsier  and  dron'sier].  The  fact  that  thev 
si)end  money  so  extravagantly  on  medical  attendance 
rtally  would  not  justify  me  in  wasting  my  talents — such 
as  tlity  are — in  keeping  them  alive.  After  all,  if  my 
fees  are  high,  I  have  to  spend  heavily.  My  own  tastes 
are  simple:  a  camp  bed,  a  couple  of  rooms,  a  crust,  a 
bottle  of  wine;  and  I  am  happy  and  contented.  My 
wife's  tastes  are  perhaps  more  luxurious;  but  even  she 
deplores  an  expenditure  the  sole  object  of  which  is  to 
maintain  the  state  my  patients  require  from  tl.cir  med- 
ical attendant.  The — er — er — er —  [suddenly  jvaking 
uy\  I  have  lost  the  thread  of  these  remarks.  What  was 
I  talking  about,  Ridgeon.'' 

RiDGEOX.      About    Dubedat. 

B.  B.  Ah  yes.  Precisely.  Thank  you.  Dubedat,  of 
course.  Well,  what  is  our  friend  Dubedat?  A  vicious 
and  ignorant  young  man  with  a  talent  for  drawing. 

Loiis.      Thank  you.      Dont  mind  me. 

B.  B.  But  then,  what  are  many  of  my  patients? 
Vicious  and  ignorant  young  men  without  a  talent  for 
anything.  If  I  were  to  stop  to  argue  about  their  merits 
I  should  have  to  give  up  three-quarters  of  my  practice. 
Therefore  I  have  made  it  a  rule  not  so  to  argue.  Now, 
as  an  honorable  man,  having  made  that  rule  as  to  paying 
patients,  can  I  make  an  exception  as  to  a  patient  who, 
far  from  being  a  paying  patient,  may  more  fitly  be  de- 
scribed as  a  borrowing  patient?  No.  I  say  No.  Mr 
Dubedat:  your  moral  character  is  nothing  to  me.  I  look 
at  you  from  a  purely  scientific  point  of  view.  To  me  you 
are  simnly  a  field  of  battle  in  wliich  an  invading  army 
of  tubercle  bacilli  struggles  with  a  patriotic  force  of 
phagocytes.  Having  made  a  promise  to  your  wife,  which 
my  principles  will  not  allow  me  to  break,  to  stimulate 
those  phagoc}i:es,  I  will  stimulate  them.  And  I  take  no 
further  responsibility.  [i/e  flings  himself  back  in  his 
seat  exhausted]. 


Act  III      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  79 

Sir  Patrick.  Wcll^  Mr  Dnbodat,  as— 8ir.  -Ralph  has 
very  kindly  offered  to  take  charge  of  your  case,  and  as 
the  two  minutes  I  promised  you  are  up,  I  must  ask  you 
to  excuse  me.      [He  rises]. 

Louis.  Oh,  certainly.  Ive  quite  done  with  you. 
[Rising  and  holding  up  the  sketch  block]  There!  While 
youve  been  talking,  Ive  been  doing.  What  is  there  left 
of  your  moralizing?  Only  a  little  carbonic  acid  gas 
which  makes  the  room  unhealthy.  What  is  there  left  of 
my  work.''  That.  Look  at  it  [Ridgeoji  ritts  to  look 
at   it]. 

Sir  Patrick  [tcHo  has  come  down  to  him  from  the 
thrane]  You  young  rascal,  was  it  drawing  me  you 
were .'' 

Louis.      Of  course.     What  else? 

Sir  Patrk  k  [takes  the  drawing  from  him  and  grunts 
approvingly]  Thats  rather  good.  Dont  you  think  so. 
Colly  ? 

RiuGEON.      Yes.     So  good  that  I  should  like  to  have  it. 

Sir  Patrick.  Thank  you;  but  I  should  like  to  have  it 
myself.     What  d'ye  think,  Walpole? 

Walpole  [rui«^  and  coming  over  to  look]  No,  by 
Jove:  /  must  have  this. 

Louis.  I  wish  I  could  afford  to  give  it  to  you,  Sir 
Patrick.  But  I'd  pay  five  guineas  sooner  than  part 
with  it. 

RiDGEON.  Oh,  for  that  matter,  I  will  give  you  six 
for  it. 

Walpole.      Ten. 

Louis.  I  think  Sir  Patrick  is  morally  entitled  to  it, 
as  he  sat  for  it.  May  I  send  it  to  your  house.  Sir  Patrick, 
for  twelve  guineas  ? 

Sir  Patrick.  Twelve  guineas !  Xot  if  you  were 
President  of  the  Royal  Academy,  young  man.  [He  gives 
him  back  the  drawing  decisively  and  turns  away,  taking 
up  liis  hat] . 


80  The  Doctor's  Dilemma      Act  III 

Lor  IS  [to  B.  B.]  Would  vou  like  to  take  it  at  twelve. 
Sir  Ralph? 

B.  B.  [coming  bet  ween  Louis  and  Walpole]  Twelve 
guineas?  Thank  you:  I'll  take  it  at  that.  [He  takes 
it  and  presents  it  to  Sir  Patrick],  Accept  it  from  me, 
Paddy ;  and  may  you  long  be  spared  to  contemplate  it. 

Sir  Patrick.  Thank  you.  [lie  puts  the  drawing 
into  his  hat\. 

B.  B.  I  neednt  settle  with  you  now,  Mr  Dubedat: 
my  fees  will  come  to  more  tlian  that.  [He  also  retrieves 
his  hat]. 

Loi'is  [indignantly]  Well,  of  all  the  mean — [words 
fail  him]  !  I'd  let  myself  be  shot  sooner  than  do  a  thing 
like  that.     I  consider  youve  stolen  that  drawing. 

Sir  Patrick  [drill/]  So  weve  converted  you  to  a  be- 
lief in  morality  after  all,  eh? 

Louis.  Yah!  [I'o  JValpole]  1*11  do  another  one  for 
you,  Walpole,  if  youll  let  me  have  the  ten  you  promised. 

Walpole.     Very  good.     I'll  pay  on  delivery. 

Louis.  Oh!  What  do  you  take  me  for?  Have  you 
no  confidence  in  my  honor? 

Walpole.      None  whatever. 

Louis.  Oh  well,  of  course  if  you  feel  that  way,  you 
cant  help  it.  Before  you  go,  Sir  Patrick,  let  me  fetch 
Jennifer.  I  know  she'd  like  to  see  you,  if  you  dont  mind. 
[He  goes  to  the  inner  door].  And  now,  before  she  comes 
in,  one  word.  Youve  all  been  talking  here  pretty  freely 
about  me — in  my  own  house  too.  /  dont  mind  that:  I'm 
a  man  and  can  take  care  of  myself.  But  when  Jennifer 
comes  in,  please  remember  that  she's  a  lady,  and  that 
you  are  supposed  to  be  gentlemen.      [He  goes  out]. 

Walpole.  Well ! ! !  [He  gives  the  situation  up  as  in- 
describable,  and  goes   for   his   hat]. 

Ridgeox.      Damn   his  impudence  ! 

B.  B.  I  shouldnt  be  at  all  surprised  to  learn  that 
he's  well  connected.     WTienever  I  meet  dignity  and  self- 


Act  III      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  81 

possession  without  any  discoverable  basis,  I  diagnose 
good  family. 

RiuGEON.  Diagnose  artistic  genius,  B.  B.  Thats 
what  saves  his  self-respect. 

Sir  Patrick.  The  world  is  made  like  that.  The 
decent  fellows  are  always  being  lectured  and  put  out  of 
countenance  by  the  snobs. 

B.  B.  [altogether  refusing  to  accept  this]  I  am  not 
out  of  countenance.  I  should  like,  by  Jupiter,  to  see 
the  man  who  could  put  me  out  of  countenance.  [Jen- 
nifer comes  in].  All,  Mrs.  Dubedat!  And  how  are  we 
to-day  ? 

Mrs  Dubedat  [shaking  hands  with  him]  Thank  you 
all  so  much  for  coming.  [She  sha/ccs  JValpole's  hand]. 
Thank  you,  Sir  Patrick  [she  shakes  Sir  Patrick's].  Oh, 
life  has  been  worth  living  since  I  have  known  you.  Since 
Richmond  I  have  not  known  a  moment's  fear.  And  it 
used  to  be  nothing  but  fear.  Wont  you  sit  down  and  tell 
me  the  result  of  the  consultation? 

Walpole.  I'll  go,  if  you  dont  mind,  Mrs.  Dubedat. 
I  have  an  appointment.  Before  I  go,  let  me  say  that 
I  am  quite  agreed  with  my  colleagues  here  as  to  the 
character  of  the  case.  As  to  the  cause  and  the  remedy, 
thats  not  my  business:  I'm  only  a  surgeon;  and  these 
gentlemen  are  physicians  and  will  advise  you.  I  may 
have  my  own  views:  in  fact  I  have  them;  and  they  are 
perfectly  well  known  to  my  colleagues.  If  I  am  needed 
— and  needed  I  shall  be  finally — they  know  where  to  find 
me ;  and  I  am  always  at  your  service.  So  for  to-day, 
good-bye.  [He  goes  out,  leaving  Jennifer  much  puz- 
zled by  his  unexpected  withdrawal  and  formal  manner]. 

Sir  Patrick.  I  also  will  ask  you  to  excuse  me,  Mrs 
Dubedat. 

RiDGEON    [anxiously]      Are  you  going? 

Sir  Patrick.  Yes:  I  can  be  of  no  use  here;  and  I 
must  be  getting  back.     As  you  know,  maam,  I'm  not  in 


82  Tlie  Doctor's  Dilemma      Act  III 

practice  now;  and  I  shall  not  be  in  charge  of  the  case. 
It  rests  between  Sir  Colenso  Ridgeon  and  Sir  Ralph 
Bloomfield  Bonington.  They  know  my  opinion.  Good 
afternoon  to  you,  uiaam.  [//e  bows  and  makes  for  the 
door]. 

Mas  Dtheoat  \detaining  him]  Theres  nothing 
wrong,  is  tiicre?  You  dont  think  Louis  is  worse,  do 
you? 

Sir  Pathk  k.  No:  lie's  not  worse.  Just  tiie  same 
as  at  Hiehmond. 

Mhs  DruKDAT.  Oh.  th.ink  you:  you  frightened  me. 
Excuse  me. 

Sni  Patkk  K.  Dont  mention  it,  m.-iam.  (  lie  goes 
out]. 

B.  B.  Xmv,  Mrs  Dubedat.  if  I  am  to  take  the  })a- 
tierit  in  liand — 

Mrs  DiiiKOAT  \aprrhensii'eli/,  with  a  glance  at 
liidgeon]      You!      But    I    thought   that    Sir   Colenso — 

B.  B.  [Ler.ming  nith  the  rotiriction  that  he  is  giving 
her  a  7nost  gratifying  surprise]  My  dear  lady,  your 
husband  shall  have  Me. 

Mrs  Di'DEDAT.      But — 

B.  B.  Not  a  word:  it  is  a  ])lcasure  to  me,  for  your 
sake.  Sir  Colenso  Ridgeon  will  be  in  his  proper  place, 
in  the  bacteriological  laboratory.  /  shall  l)e  in  my  ])roper 
place,  at  the  bedside.  Your  husband  shall  be  treated 
exactly  as  if  he  were  a  membeu  of  the  royal  family. 
[Mrs  Dubedat  uneastj,  again  is  about  to  protest].  No 
gratitude:  it  would  embarrass  tne,  I  assure  you.  Now, 
may  I  ask  whether  you  are  particularly  tied  to  these 
apartments.  Of  course,  the  motor  has  annihilated  dis- 
tance; but  I  confess  that  if  you  were  rather  nearer  to 
me,  it  would  be  a  little  more  convenient. 

Mrs  Di'BEDAT.  You  see,  this  studio  and  flat  arq  self- 
contained.  I  have  suffered  so  much  in  lodgings.  The 
servants  are  so  frightfully  dishonest. 


Act  III      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  88 

B.   B.     Ah  !     Are  tliey  ?     Are  they  ?      Dear  me  ! 

Mrs  Dubedat.  I  was  never  accustomed  to  lock  things 
up.  And  I  missed  so  many  small  sums.  At  last  a  dread- 
ful thing  happened.  I  missed  a  five-pound  note.  It  was 
traced  to  tlie  iiousemaid ;  and  she  actually  said  Louis  had 
given  it  to  her.  And  he  wouldnt  let  me  do  anything:  he 
is  so  sensitive  that  these  things  drive  him  mad. 

B.  B.  Ah — hm — ha — yes — say  no  more,  Mrs.  Dube- 
dat: you  shall  not  move.  If  the  mountain  will  not  come 
to  Mahomet,  Mahomet  must  come  to  the  mountain.  Now 
I  nmst  he  off.  I  will  write  and  make  an  appointment. 
We  shall  begin  stimulating  the  phagocytes  on — on — 
probably  on  Tuesday  next;  but  I  will  let  you  know. 
Depend  on  me;  dont  fret;  eat  regularly;  sleep  well; 
keep  your  spirits  up;  keep  the  patient  cheerful;  hope 
for  the  best;  no  tonic  like  a  charming  woman;  no  medi- 
cine like  cheerfiilnoss ;  no  resource  like  science;  good- 
bye, good-hyv,  giiod-bye.  [U/iviiifr  shaken  hands — she 
bring  too  ovcnrlu'hiird  to  spenh — he  goes  out,  stop- 
ping to  say  to  liidgeon]  On  Tuesday  morning  send 
me  down  a  tube  of  some  really  stiff  anti-toxin.  Any 
kind  will  do.  Dont  forget.  Good-bye.  Colly.  '^[He  goes 
out]. 

RiDGEON.  You  look  quite  discouraged  again.  [She 
is  almost  in  tears].  What's  the  matter.^  Are  you  dis- 
appointed ? 

Mrs  Dubedat.  I  know  I  ought  to  be  very  grateful. 
Believe  me,  I  am  very  grateful.     But — but — 

RiDGEox.     Well .'' 

Mrs  Dubedat.  I  had  set  my  heart  on  your  curing 
Louis. 

RiDGEOx.      Well,   v'^ir   Ralph    Bloomfield   Bonington — 

Mrs  Dubeuat.  Yes,  I  know.  I  know.  It  is  a  great 
privilege  to  have  him.  But  oh,  I  wish  it  had  been  you. 
I  know  it's  unreasonable;  I  cant  explain;  but  I  had  such 
a  strong  instinct  that  you  would  cure  him.      I   dont — I 


84  The  Doctor's  Dilemma      Act  III 

cant  feci  the  same  about  Sir  Ralpli.  You  promised  me. 
Why  did  you  give  Louis  up? 

RiDGEON.  I  explained  to  you.  I  cannot  take  another 
case. 

Mhs   Dubedat.      But  at   Richmond? 

RioGEON.  At  Richmond  I  thought  I  could  make  room 
for  one  more  case.  But  my  old  friend  Dr  Blenkinsop 
claimed  that  place.     His  lung  is  attacked. 

Mrs  Dl'bedat  [attaching  no  importance  whatever  to 
Blenkinsop]  Do  vou  mean  that  elderly  man — that  rather 
silly— 

RiDGEox  [sternly]  I  mean  the  gentleman  that  dined 
with  us:  an  excellent  and  honest  man,  whose  life  is  as 
valuable  as  anyone  else's.  I  have  arranjT«ed  that  I  shall 
take  his  case,  and  that  Sir  Ralph  Bloomfield  Bonington 
shall  take  Mr  Dubedat's. 

Mrs  Dubedat  [turning  indignantly  on  him]  I  see 
what  it  is.  Oh !  it  is  envious,  mean,  cruel.  And  I 
tliought  that  you  would  be  above  such  a  thing. 

Hidgeon.      ^^'hat  do  you  mean? 

Mrs  Di'BEDAT.  Oh,  do  you  think  I  dont  know?  do 
you  think  it  has  never  happened  before?  Why  does 
everybody  turn  against  him?  Can  you  not  forgive  him 
for  being  superior  to  you?  for  being  cleverer?  for  being 
braver?  for  being  a  great  artist? 

RiDGEON.      Yes:   I   can   forgive  him   for  all   that. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  Well,  have  you  anything  to  say 
against  him?  I  have  challenged  everyone  who  has 
turned  against  him — challenged  them  face  to  face  to  tell 
me  any  wrong  thing  he  has  done,  any  ignoble  thought 
he  has  uttered.  They  have  always  confessed  that  they 
could  not  tell  me  one.  I  challenge  you  now.  What  do 
you  accuse  him  of? 

RiDGEON.  I  am  like  all  the  rest.  Face  to  face,  I  can- 
not tell  you  one  thing  against  him. 

Mrs   DroEBAT    [not   satisfied]      But   your   manner   is 


Act  III      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  85 

changed.  And  you  have  broken  your  promise  to  me  to 
make  room  for  him  as  your  patient. 

RiDGEON.  I  think  you  are  a  little  unreasonable.  You 
have  had  the  very  best  medical  advice  in  London  for 
him;  and  his  case  has  been  taken  in  hand  by  a  leader 
of  the  i)rofession.     Surely — 

Mrs  Dudebat.  Oh,  it  is  so  cruel  to  keep  telling  me 
that.  It  seems  all  right;  and  it  puts  me  in  the  wrong. 
But  I  am  not  in  the  wrong.  I  have  faith  in  you;  and  I 
have  no  faith  in  the  others.  We  have  seen  so  many  doc- 
tors :  I  have  come  to  know  at  last  when  they  are  only 
talking  and  can  do  nothing.  It  is  different  with  you. 
I  feel  that  you  know.  You  must  listen  to  me,  doctor. 
[Jfith  sudden  7nisgiving]  Am  I  offending  you  by  call- 
ing you   doctor   instead   of   remembering   your   title.'' 

RiDGEON.  Nonsense.  lama  doctor.  But  mind  you, 
dont  call  Walpole  one. 

Miis  DuDERA'^.  I  dont  care  about  Mr  Walpole:  it  is 
you  who  must  befriend  me.  Oh,  will  you  please  sit  dovm 
and  listen  to  me  just  for  a  few  minutes.  [He  assents 
tilth  a  grave  inclination,  and  sits  on  the  sofa.  She  sits 
on  the  easel  chair]  Thank  you.  I  wont  keep  you  long; 
but  I  must  tell  you  the  whole  truth.  Listen.  I  know 
Louis  as  nobody  else  in  the  world  knows  him  or  ever 
can  know  him.  1  am  his  wife.  I  know  he  has  little 
faults :  impatiences,  sensitivenesses,  even  little  selfish- 
nesses that  are  too  trivial  for  him  to  notice.  I  know  that 
he  sometimes  shocks  people  about  money  because  he  is 
so  utterly  above  it,  and  cant  understand  the  value  or- 
dinary people  set  on  it.  Tell  me:  did  he — did  he  bor- 
row any  money  from  you  ? 

RiDGEON.     He  asked  me  for  some — once. 

Mrs  Dcdebat  [tears  again  in  her  eyes]  Oh,  I  am 
so  sorry — so  sorry.  But  he  will  never  do  it  again :  I 
pledge  you  my  word  for  that.  He  has  given  me  his 
promise:  here  in  this  room  just  before  you  came;  and 


86  The  Doctor's  Dilemma      Act  III 

he  is  incapable  of  breaking  his  word.  That  was  his 
only  real  weakness;  and  now  it  is  conquered  and  done 
with  for  ever. 

RiDGEON.      Was  that  really  his  only  weakness? 

Mrs  Dudebat.  He  is  perhaps  sometimes  weak  alxjut 
women,  because  the}'  adore  him  so,  and  are  always  laying 
traps  for  him.  And  of  course  when  he  says  he  doesnt 
believe  in  morality,  ordinary  pious  people  think  he  must 
be  wicked.  You  can  understand,  cant  you,  how  all  this 
starts  a  great  deal  of  gossip  about  him,  and  get-s  rejieated 
until    even   good    friends   get   set   against   him.'' 

RiDGEox.     Yes:    I    understmd. 

Mrs  DroEBAT.  Oh,  if  you  only  knew  the  other  side 
of  him  as  I  do!  Do  you  know,  doctor,  that  if  Louis  dis- 
honored himself  by  a  really  bad  action,  I  should  kill 
myself. 

RiixjEON.      Come!   dont   exaggerate. 

Mrs  Dtbedat.  I  should.  You  don't  understand 
that,  you  east  country  people. 

RiDfJEON.  You  did  not  see  much  of  the  world  in 
Cornwall,  did  you? 

Mrs  Dudebat  [naiveli/]  Oh  yes.  I  saw  a  great 
deal  every  day  of  the  beauty  of  the  world — more  than 
you  ever  see  here  in  London.  But  I  saw  very  few  peo- 
ple, if  that  is  what  you  mean.     I  was  an  only  child. 

RiDGEON.      That  explains  a  good  deal. 

Mrs  Dtbedat.  I  had  a  great  many  dreams ;  but  at 
last  they  all  came  to  one  dream. 

RiDGEON  \wiih  half  a  sigh]     Yes,  the  usual  dream. 

Mrs   DrBEDAT    [svrprised]      Is   it   usual? 

RiDOEON.  As  I  guess.  You  havnt  yet  told  me  what 
it  was. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  I  didn't  want  to  waste  myself.  I 
could  do  nothing  myself;  but  I  had  a  little  property  and 
I  couJd  help  with  it.  I  liad  even  a  little  beauty:  dont 
think  me  vain  for  knowing  it.     I  knew  that  men  of  genius 


Act  III      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  87 

always  had  a  terrible  struggle  with  poverty  and  neglect 
at  first.  My  dream  was  to  save  one  of  them  from  that, 
and  bring  some  charm  and  happiness  into  his  life.  I 
prayed  Heaven  to  send  me  one.  I  firmly  btlieve  that 
Louis  was  guided  to  me  in  answer  to  my  j)ray(r.  He  was 
no  more  like  the  other  men  I  had  met  than  the  Thames 
Embankment  is  like  our  Cornish  coasts.  He  saw  cvcr)'- 
tJiiiig  that  I^ja'"!,  and  drew  it  for  me.  He  understood 
everythrngr  He  came  to  me  like  a  child.  Only  fancy, 
doctor:  he  never  even  wanted  to  marry  me:  he  never 
thought  of  tlie  things  other  men  think  of!  I  had  to 
propose  it  myself.  Then  he  said  he  had  no  money. 
When  I  told  liim  I  had  some,  he  said  "  Oh,  all  right," 
just  like  a  boy.  He  is  still  like-  that,  quite  unspoiled,  a 
man  in  his  thoughts,  a  great  poet  and  artist  in  his 
dreams,  and  a  child  in  his  ways.  I  gave  him  myself  and 
all  I  had  that  he  might  grow  to  liis  full  height  with 
plenty  of  sunshine.  If  I  lost  faith  in  him,  it  would 
mean  the  wreck  and  failure  of  my  life.  I  should  go  back 
to  Cornwall  and  die.  I  could  show  you  the  very  cliff  I 
should  jump  oil".  You  must  cure  him:  you  must  make 
him  quite  m'cII  again  for  me.  I  know  that  you  can  do 
it  and  that  nobody  i  !m  cut.  I  implore  you  not  to  refuse 
what  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  do.  Take  Louis  yourself; 
and  let  Sir  Ralph  cure  Dr  Blenkinsop. 

RiDGEox  [skfrrhf]  Mrs  Diib.edat:  do  you  really  be- 
lieve in  my  knowledge  and  skill  as  you  say  you  do? 

Mrs  DrBED.-vT.  Absolutely.  I  do  not  give  my  trust 
by  halves. 

RiDGEON.  I  know  that.  Well,  I  am  going  to  test  you 
— hard.  Will  you  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I 
understand  what  you  have  just  told  me;  that  I  have  no 
desire  but  to  serve  you  in  the  most  faithful  friendship; 
and  that  your  hero  must  be  preserved  to  you. 

Mrs  Di'bedat.  Oh  forgive  me.  Forgive  what  I  said. 
You  will  preserve  him  to  me. 


88  The  Doctor's  Dilemma      Act  III 

RiDGEON.  At  all  hazards.  [She  kisses  his  hand.  lie 
rises  hastily].  No:  you  have  not  heard  the  rest.  [She 
rises  too].  You  must  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that 
the  one  chance  of  preserving  the  hero  lies  in  Louis  being 
in  the  care  of  Sir  Ralph. 

Mhs  Dl'bedat  [firmly]  You  say  so:  I  have  no  more 
doubt:  I  believe  you.     Thank  you. 

RioGEON.  Good-bye.  [She  takes  his  hand].  I  hope 
this  will  be  a  lasting  friendship. 

Mrs  Dl'bedat.  It  will.  My  friendships  end  only 
with  death. 

RiDGEON.  Death  ends  everything,  doesnt  it.^  Good- 
bye. 

With  a  siph  and  a  look  of  pity  at  her  jvhich  she  does 
not  understand,  he  goes. 


ACT    IV 

The  studio.  The  easel  is  pushed  back  to  the  wall. 
Cardinal  Death,  holding  his  sci/the  and  hour-glass  like 
a  sceptre  and  globe,  sits  on  the  throne.  On  the  hat-stand 
hang  the  hats  of  Sir  Patrick  and  Bloomfield  lionington. 
Wcdpole,  juxt  come  in,  is  hanging  up  his  beside  them. 
There  is  a  knock.  He  opens  the  door  and  finds  Ridg- 
eon  there. 

Walpole.      Hallo,    Ridgeon ! 

They  come  into  the  middle  of  the  room  tjgether,  tak- 
ing off  their  gloves. 

RinGEON.  \\Tiats  the  matter!  Have  you  been  sent 
for,  too? 

Walpole.  Were  all  been  sent  for.  Ive  only  just 
come :  I  havnt  seen  him  yet.  The  charwoman  says  that 
old  Paddy  Cullen  has  been  here  with  B.  B.  for  the  last 
half-hour.  [Sir  Patrick,  with  bad  news  in  his  face,  en- 
ters from  the  inner  roojn].      Well:  whats   up.'' 

Sir  Patrick.  Go  in  and  see.  B.  B.  is  in  there  with 
him. 

Walpole  goes.  Ridgeon  is  about  to  follow  him;  but 
Sir  Patrick  stops  him  with  a  look. 

Ridgeon.     What  has  happened? 

Sir  Patrick.      Do  you  remember  Jane  Marsh's  arm  ? 

Ridgeon.      Is  that  whats  happened? 

Sir  Patrick.  Thats  whats  happened.  His  lung  has 
89 


90  The  Doctor's  Dilemma       Act  IV 

gone  like  Jane's  arm.  I  never  saw  such  a  case.  He  has 
got  through  three  months  galloping  consumption  in  three 
days. 

RiDGEON.      B.   B.   got  in  on  the  negative  phase. 

Sir  Patrick.  Negative  or  positive,  the  lad's  done 
for.  Ho  wont  last  out  the  afternoon.  He'll  go  suddenly: 
Ive  often  seen  it. 

RiDGEON.  So  long  as  he  goes  before  his  wife  finds 
him  out,  /  dont  care.     I   fully  expected  this. 

Sir  Patrick  [<ir»/y]  It's  a  little  hard  on  a  lad  to  be 
killed  because  his  wife  has  too  high  an  opinion  of  him. 
Fortunately   few  of  us   are   in  any   danger  of  that. 

Sir  Ralph  comes  from  the  inner  room  and  hastens  he- 
ttreen  them,  humanely  concerned,  hut  prof^ssionalli/  elate 
and  communicative. 

B.  B.  Ah,  here  you  are,  Ridgeon.  Paddy's  told  you, 
of  course. 

RiDGEON.     Yes. 

B.  B.  It's  an  enormously  interesting  case.  You 
know,  ColJy,  by  .Tupiter,  if  I  didnt  know  as  a  matter  of 
scientific  fact  that  I'd  been  stimulating  the  phagocytes, 
I  should  say  I'd  been  stimulating  the  other  tilings. 
What  is  the  e.xfOanation  of  it.  Sir  Patrick?  How  do 
you  account  for  it,  Ridgeon?  Have  we  over-stimulated 
the  phagocytes  ?  Have  they  not  only  eaten  up  the  bacilli, 
but  attacked  and  destroyed  the  red  corpuscles  as  well?  a 
possibility  suggested  by  the  patient's  pallor.  Nay,  have 
they  finally  begun  to  prey  on  the  lungs  tlumselves?  Or 
on  one  another?     I   shall  write  a  paper  .tbout  this  case. 

IValpole  comes  back,  very  serious,  even  shocked.  He 
comes  between  B.  B.  and  Ridgeon. 

W.vLPOLE.      Whew  I      B.    B.:  youve  done  it  this  time. 

B.  B.     What  do  you  mean? 

Walpole.  Killed  him.  The  worst  case  of  neglected 
blood-poisoning  I  ever  saw.  It's  too  late  now  to  do  any- 
thing.    He'd  die  under  the  aneesthetie. 


Act  IV       The  Doctor's  Dilemma  91 

B.  B.  [offended]  Killed!  Really,  Walpole,  if  your 
monomania  were  not  well  known,  I  should  take  such  an 
expression  very  seriously. 

Sir  Patrick.  Come  come!  When  youve  Ixith  killed 
as  many  people  as  I  have  in  my  time  youll  feel  humble 
enoucrh  about  it.     Come  and  look  at  him.  Colly. 

Ridgeon  and  Sir  Patrick  go  into  the  inner  room. 

Walpole.  I  apolo^ze,  B.  B.  But  it's  blood-j)oison- 
ing. 

B.  B.  \  recovering  his  irresistible  good  nature]  My 
dear  Walpole,  everything  is  blood-poisoning.  But 
upon  my  soul,  I  shall  not  use  any  of  that  stuff  of  Ridg- 
eon's  again.  What  made  me  so  sensitive  about  what  you 
said  just  now  is  that,  strictly  between  ourselves,  Ridgeon 
has  cooked  our  young  friend's  goose. 

Jennifer,  worried  and  distressed,  but  always  gentle, 
comes  between  them  from  the  inner  room.  She  wears  c 
vursc's  aprnn. 

Mrs  DfOEOAT.  Sir  R,-ilph:  what  am  I  to  do?  That 
man  who  insisted  on  seeing  me,  and  sent  in  word  that 
his  business  was  important  to  Louis,  is  a  newspaper  man. 
A  paragraph  appeared  in  the  paper  this  morning  saying 
that  Louis  is  seriously  ill;  and  this  man  wants  to  interview 
him  about  it.      How  can   peoph-   !>e  so  brutally   callous? 

Walpole  [moving  vengefuUtf  towards  the  door]  \  ou 
just  leave  me  to  deal  with  him  ! 

Mrs  Dcbedat  [stopping  hiin]  But  Louis  insists  on 
seeing  him :  he  almost  began  to  cry  about  it.  And  he 
says  he  cant  bear  his  room  any  longer.  He  says  he 
wants  to  [she  struggles  with  a  sob] — to  die  in  his  studio. 
Sir  Patrick  says  let  him  have  his  way:  it  can  do 
no  harm.     What  shall  we  do? 

B.  B.  [ercouraginglu]  Why,  follow  Sir  Patrick's 
excellent  advice,  of  course.  As  he  says,  it  can  do  him 
no  harm;  and  it  will  no  doubt  do  him  good — a  great  deal 
of  srood.     He  will  be  much  the  better  for  it. 


92  The  Doctor's  Dilemma      Act  IV 

Mrs  Dubedat  [a  little  cheered]  Will  you  bring  the 
man  up  here,  Mr  Walpole,  and  tell  him  that  he  may  see 
Louis,  but  that  he  mustnt  exhaust  him  by  talking? 
[JValpole  nods  and  goes  out  hy  the  outer  door].  Sir 
Ralph,  dont  be  angry  with  me;  but  Louis  will  die  if 
he  stays  here.  I  must  take  him  to  Cornwall.  He  will 
recover  there. 

B.  B.  [brightening  wonder  fully,  as  if  Dubedat  were 
already  saved]  Cornwall!  The  very  place  for  him! 
Wonderful  for  the  lungs.  Stupid  of  me  not  to  think  of 
it  before.  You  are  his  best  physician  after  all,  dear  lady. 
An  insjuration !     Cornwall:  of  course,  yes,  yes,  yes. 

Mrs  Di'BEDAT  {comforted  and  touched]  You  are  so 
kind,  Sir  Ralph.  But  dont  give  me  much  or  I  sliall 
cry;  and  Louis  cant  bear  that. 

B.  B.  [gently  putting  his  protecting  arm  round  her 
shoulders]  Then  let  us  come  back  to  him  and  help  to 
carry  him  in.  Cornwall !  of  course,  of  course.  The  very 
thing!      [They   go   together   into   the   bedroom]. 

Walpole  returns  nith  The  Xen-spaper  Man,  a  cheerful, 
affable  young  man  n'ho  is  disabled  for  ordinary  business 
pursuits  by  a  congenital  erroneousness  which  renders  him 
incapable  of  describing  accurately  anything  he  sees,  or  un- 
derstanding or  reporting  accurately  anything  he  hears.  As 
the  only  employment  in  which  these  defects  do  not  mat- 
ter is  journalism  (for  a  newspaper,  not  having  to  act  on 
its  description  and  reports,  but  only  to  sell  them  to  idly 
curious  people,  has  nothing  but  honor  to  lose  by  inac- 
curacy and  un veracity),  he  has  perforce  become  a  jour- 
nalist, and  has  to  keep  up  an  air  of  high  spirits  through 
a  daily  struggle  with  his  own  illiteracy  and  the  precari- 
ousness  of  his  employment.  He  has  a  note-book,  and 
ocasionally  attempts  to  make  a  note;  but  as  he  cannot 
write  shorthand,  and  does  not  write  with  ease  in  any 
hand,  he  generally  gives  it  up  as  a  bad  job  before  he 
succeeds  in  finishing  a  sentence. 


Act  IV      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  93 

The  Xewspaper  Man  [looking  round  and  making  in- 
decisive attempts  at  notes']  This  is  the  studio,  I 
suppose. 

Walpole.      Yes. 

The  Newspaper  Man  [wittily]  Where  he  has  his 
models,  eh.'' 

\yALPOLE    [grimly  irresponsive]      No  doubt. 

The  Newspaper  Man.     Cubicle,  you  said  it  was.'' 

Walpole.     Yes,  tubercle. 

The  Newspaper  Man.  Which  way  do  you  spell  it: 
is  it  c-u-b-i-c-a-1  or  c-l-e .'' 

\\'alpole.  Tubercle,  man,  not  cubical.  [Spelling  it 
for  hi7n]   T-u-b-e-r-c-l-e. 

The  Newspaper  Man.  Oh !  tubercle.  Some  disease, 
I  suppose.  I  thought  he  had  consumption.  Are  you  one 
of  the  family  or  the  doctor.'' 

Walpole.  I'm  neither  one  nor  the  other.  I  am 
^^ister  Cutler  Walpole.  Put  that  down.  Then  put 
down  Sir  Colenso  Ridgcon. 

The  Newspaper  Man.     Pigeon? 

Vv'alpole.  Ridgeon.  [Contemptuously  snatching  his 
hook]  Here:  youd  better  let  me  write  the  names  down 
for  you:  youre  sure  to  get  them  wrong.  That  comes  of 
belonging  to  an  illiterate  profession,  with  no  qualifica- 
tions and  no  public  register.  [He  writes  the  particu- 
lars]. 

The  Newspaper  Man.  Oh,  I  say:  you  have  got 
your  knife  into  us,  havnt  you.^ 

Walpole  [vindictively]  I  wish  I  had:  I'd  make  a 
better  man  of  you.  Now  attend.  [Shetving  him  the 
'^book]  These  are  the  names  of  the  three  doctors.  This 
is  the  patient.  This  is  the  address.  This  is  the  name 
of  the  disease.  [lie  shuts  the  book  with  a  snap  which 
makes  the  journalist  blink,  and  returns  it  to  him].  Mr 
Dubedat  will  be  brought  in  here  presently.  He  wants 
to  see  you  because  he  doesnt  know  how  bad  he  is.     We'll 


94  The  Doctor's  Dilemma       Act  IV 

allow  you  to  wait  n  few  minutes  to  humor  him;  but  if 
you  talk  to  liim,  out  you  go.  He  luay  die  at  any  mo- 
ment. 

The  Newspaper  Man  [interested]  Is  he  as  bad  as 
that?  I  say:  I  am  in  luck  to-day.  Woi:ld  you  mind  let- 
ting me  photograph  you.''  [lie  product's  a  cariera]. 
Could  you  have  a  lancet  or  something  in  your  hand? 

Walpole.  Put  It  up.  If  you  want  my  photograph 
you  can  get  it  in  Baker  Street  in  any  of  the  series  of 
celebrities. 

The  Newspaper  Man.  But  th<'yll  want  to  be  paid. 
If   vou   wouldnt   miiul    [/iiigt')iiig  the  camera]  —  ? 

Walpole.  I  would.  Put  it  up,  I  tell  you.  Sit  down 
there  and  be  quiet. 

The  Xetrspaper  Man  quickli/  sits  don'v  on  the  piano 
stool  as  Duhedat,  in  an  invalid's  chair,  is  n'heeled  in  by 
Mrs  Duhedat  and  Sir  Ralph.  Thet/  place  the  chair  be- 
tween the  dais  and  the  sofa,  where  the  easel  stood  before. 
Louis  is  not  changed  as  a  robust  man  would  be;  and  he 
is  not  scared.  His  eyes  look  larger;  and  he  is  so  weak 
physicnllfi  that  he  can  hardltf  more,  Ifiing  on  his  cushions 
with  complete  languor;  but  his  mind  is  active;  it  is  mak- 
'ing  the  most  of  his  condition,  finding  voluptuousness  in 
languor  and  drama  in  death.  They  are  all  impressed,  in 
spite  of  themselves,  except  Ridgeon,  who  is  implacable. 
B.  B.  is  entirely  si/mpntJietic  and  fortririnrr,  Ridgeon 
follows  the  chair  with  a  tray  of  milk  and  stimulants.  Sir 
Patrick,  who  accompanies  him,  takes  the  tea-table  from 
the  corner  and  places  it  behind  the  chair  for  the  tray. 
B.  B.  takes  the  easel  chair  and  places  it  for  Jennifer  at 
Dubedat's  side,  ncrt  the  dais,  from  fvhich  the  lay  figure 
ogles  the  dying  artist.  B.  B.  then  returns  to  Dubedat's 
left.  Jennifer  sits.  Walpole  sits  down  on  the  edge  of 
the  dais.     Ridgeon  stands  near  hivi. 

Louis  [blissfully^  Thats  happiness.  To  be  in  a 
studio !     Hapiness  I 


Act  IV      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  95 

Mrs  Dubedat.  Yes,  dear.  Sir  Patrick  says  you  may 
stay  here  as  long  as  you  like. 

Louis.     Jennifer. 

Mrs  Dubedat.      Yes,  my  darling. 

Louis.     Is  the  newspaper  man  here? 

The  Newspaper  Man  [gliblt/]  Yes,  Mr  Dubedat: 
I'm  here,  at  your  service.  I  represent  the  press.  I 
thought  you  might  like  to  let  us  have  a  few  words  about 
— about — er — well,  a  few  words  on  your  illness,  and 
your  plans   for  the  season. 

Louis.  My  plans  for  the  season  arc  very  simple.  I'm 
going  to  die. 

Mrs  Dubedat  [tortured]     Louis — dearest — 

Louis.  My  darling:  I'm  very  weak  and  tired.  Dont 
put  on  me  the  horrible  strain  of  pretending  that  I  dont 
know.  Ive  been  lying  there  listening  to  the  doctors — 
laughing  to  myself.  They  know.  Dearest:  dont  cry. 
It  makes  you  ugly;  and  I  cant  bear  that.  [She  dries  her 
eyes  and  recovers  herself  with  a  proud  effort].  I  want 
you  to  promise  me  something. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  Yes,  yes:  you  know  I  will.  [Im- 
ploring! if]  Only,  my  love,  my  love,  dont  talk:  it  will 
waste  your  strength. 

Louis.  No:  it  will  only  use  it  up.  Ridgeon:  give  me 
something  to  keep  me  going  for  a  few  minutes — not  one 
of  your  confounded  anti-toxins,  if  you  dont  mind.  I 
have  some  things  to  say  before  I  go. 

Ridgeon  [looking  at  Sir  Patrick]  I  suppose  it  can 
do  no  harm.'  \He  pours  out  some  spirit,  and  is  about  to 
add  soda  water  when  Sir  Patrick  corrects  him]. 

Sir  Patrick.      In  milk.     Dont  set  him  coughing. 

Louis    [after  drinking]      Jennifer. 

Mrs  Dubedat.     Yes.,  dear. 

Louis.  If  theres  one  thing  I  hate  more  than  another, 
it's  a  widow.     Promise  me  that  youll  never  be  a  widow. 

Mrs  Dubedat.     Mv  dear,  what  do  vou  mean.'' 


96  The  Doctor's  Dilemma       Act  IV 

Louis.  I  want  you  to  look  beautiful.  I  want  people 
to  see  in  your  eyes  that  you  were  married  to  me.  The 
people  in  Italy  used  to  point  at  Dante  and  say  "  There 
goes  the  man  who  has  been  in  hell."  I  want  them  to 
point  at  you  and  say  "  There  goes  a  woman  who  has  been 
in  heaven."  It  has  been  heaven,  darling,  hnsnt  it — some- 
times ? 

Mrs   Di'BEDAT.      Oh   yes,  yes.      Always,  always. 

Loris.  If  you  wear  black  and  cry,  people  will  say 
"Look  at  that  miserable  woman:  her  husband  made  her 
miserable." 

Mrs  Di'BEUAT.  No,  never.  You  are  the  liglit  and 
the  blessing  of  my  life.     I  never  lived  until  I  knew  you. 

Loris  [his  eyes  glistening]  Tlien  yop  must  always 
wear  beautiful  dresses  and  splendid  magic  jewels. 
Think  of  all  the  wonderful  pictures  I  shall  never  paint. 
[She  wins  a  terrible  victory  over  a  sob]  Well,  you  must 
be  transfigured  with  all  the  beauty  of  those  pictures. 
Men  must  get  such  dreams  from  seeing  you  as  they  never 
could  get  from  any  daubing  with  p.iints  and  brushes. 
Painters  must  jiaint  you  as  they  never  ])ainted  any  mor- 
tal woman  before.  There  must  be  a  great  tradition  of 
beauty,  a  great  atmosphere  of  wonder  and  romance. 
That  is  what  men  must  always  think  of  when  they  think 
of  me.  That  is  the  sort  of  immortality  I  want.  You  can 
make  that  for  me,  Jennifer.  There  are  lots  of  things 
you  dont  understand  that  every  woman  in  the  street  un- 
derstands ;  but  you  can  understand  that  and  do  it  as 
nobody  else  can.  Promise  me  that  immortality.  Prom- 
ise me  you  will  not  make  a  little  hell  of  crape  and  cry- 
ing and  undertaker's  horrors  and  withering  flowers  and 
all  that  vulgar  rubbish. 

Mrs  DfBEDAT.  I  promise.  But  all  that  is  far  off, 
dear.  You  are  to  come  to  Cornwall  with  me  and  get  well. 
Sir  Ralph  says  so. 

Lovis.     Poor  old  B.  B. 


Act  IV      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  97 

B.  B.  [affected  to  tears,  turns  an'ay  and  whispers  to 
Sir  Patrick]      Poor   fellow!      Brain   going. 

Louis.      Sir    Patrick's   there,   isn't   he? 

Sir  Patrick.     Yes,  yes.     I'm  here. 

Louis.  Sit  down,  wont  you.^  It's  a  shame  to  keep 
you  standing  about. 

Sir   Patrick.     Yes,  yes.     Thank   you.      All   right. 

Louis.      Jennifer. 

Mrs  Dubedat.     Yes,  dear. 

Louis  {ji'ith  a  strange  look  of  delight]  Do  you  re- 
member the  burning  bush.'' 

Mrs  Dubedat.  Yes,  yes.  Oh,  ray  dear,  how  it 
strains  my  heart  to  remember  it  now ! 

Louis.  Does  it.-*  It  fills  me  with  joy.  Tell  them 
about  it. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  It  was  nothing — only  that  once  in 
my  old  Cornish  home  we  lit  the  first  fire  of  the  winter; 
and  when  we  looked  through  the  window  we  saw  the 
flames  dancing  in  a  bush  in  the  garden. 

Louis.  Such  a  color !  Garnet  color.  Waving  like 
silk.  Liquid  lovely  flame  flowing  up  through  the  bay 
leaves,  and  not  burning  them.  Well,  I  shall  be  a  flame 
like  that.  I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  tJie  poor  little  worms; 
but  the  last  of  me  shall  be  the  flame  in  the  burning  bush. 
Whenever  you  see  the  flame,  Jennifer,  that  will  be  me. 
Promise  me  that  I  shall  be  burnt. 

Mrs  Dueedat.     Oh,  if  I  might  be  with  you,  Louis! 

Louis.  No:  you  must  always  be  in  the  garden  when 
the  bush  flames.  You  are  my  hold  on  the  world:  you 
are  my   immort.ility.      Promise. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  I'm  listening.  I  shall  not  forget. 
You  know  that  I  promise. 

Louis.  Well,  thats  about  all ;  except  that  you  are  to 
hang  my  pictures  at  the  one-man  show.  I  can  trust  your 
eye.     You  wont  let  anyone  else  touch  them. 

Mrs  Dubedat.     You  can  trust  me. 


98  The  Doctor's  Dilemma       Act  1\' 

Louis.  Then  thcres  notliinjj;  more  to  worry  about,  is 
there?  Give  mc  some  more  of  th.-it  milk.  I'm  fearfully 
tired;  but  if  I  stop  talking  I  sliant  begin  again.  [Sir 
Ralph  <rivcs  hirji  a  drink.  He  takes  it  and  looks  up 
(jnaintlif].  I  say,  I?.  B..  do  you  think  anything  would 
stop  you  talking? 

B.  B.  [almost  unmanned]  He  confuses  me  with  you, 
Paddy.      Poor   fellow!      Poor  fellow! 

I. oris  [musini;]  I  used  to  be  awfully  afraid  of  death; 
but  now  it's  come  I  have  no  fear;  and  I'm  perfectly 
happy.      Jennifer. 

Mrs  Di'HKDAT.     Yes,  dear? 

Louis.  I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  I  iiaed  to  think  that 
our  marriage  was  all  an  affectation,  and  that  I'd  break 
loose  and  run  away  some  day.  But  now  that  I'm  going 
to  be  broken  loose  whether  I  like  it  or  not,  I'm  perfectly 
fond  of  you,  and  perfectly  satisfied  because  I'm  going 
to  live  as  part  of  y<ni  and  not  as  my  troublesome  self. 
Mrs  DuRKnAT  [hearthrokm]  Stay  with  me,  Louis. 
Oh,  dont  leave  me,  dearest. 

Louis.  Not  that  I'm  selfish.  With  all  my  faults  I 
dont  think  Ive  ever  been  really  sfHish.  No  artist  can: 
Art  is  too  large  for  that.  You  will  marry  again,  Jen- 
nifer. 

Mrs  Duredat.  Oh.  how  can  you,  Louis? 
Louis  [iusistinfr  childishlif]  Yes,  because  people  who 
have  found  marriage  hajipy  always  marry  again.  Ah, 
/  shant  be  jealous.  [Sli^lif.]  But  dont  talk  to  the  other 
fellow  too  much  about  me:  he  wont  like  it.  [Almost 
chucklivg]  I  shall  be  your  lover  all  the  time;  but  it 
will  be  a  secret  from  him,  poor  devil ! 

Sir  Patrick.  Come  I  youve  talked  enough.  Try  to 
rest  awhile. 

Louis  [n-earili/]  Yes:  I'm  fearfully  tired;  but  I  shall 
have  a  long  rest  presently.  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you  fellows.     Youre  all  there,  arnt  you?     I'm  too  weak 


Act  IV      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  99 

to  see  anything  but  Jennifer's   bosom.      That   promises 
rest. 

RiDGEON.      We  are  all  here. 

Louis  {storilcd]  That  voice  sounded  devilish.  Take 
care,  Ridgeon:  my  cars  hear  things  that  other  people's 
ears  cant.  Ive  been  thinking — thinking.  I'm  cleverer 
than  you  imagine. 

Sir  Patrick  [whispering  to  Ridgeon]  Youve  got  on 
his  nerves.  Colly.      Slip  out  quiotly. 

RiiKiEON  [apart  to  Sir  Pat  ride]  Would  you  deprive 
the  dying  actor  of  his  audience.'' 

Loris  [his  face  lighting  up  faintly  with  mischievous 
glee]  I  heard  that,  Ridgeon.  That  was  good.  Jen- 
nifer, dear:  be  kind  to  Ridgeon  always;  because  he  was 
the  last  man  who  amused  me. 

RiDGEo:^-[ relentless]      Was  I? 

Lons.  But  it's  not  true.  It's  you  wlio  are  still  on 
the  stage.     I'm  h.ilf  way  hijme  already. 

Mrs   Ddjkdat    [to  Ridgeon]      "What  did  you   say.'' 

Lons  [answering  for  him]  Nothing,  dear.  Only  one 
of  those  little  secrets  that  men  keep  among  themselves. 
Well,  all  you  chaps  have  thought  pretty  hard  things  of 
me,  and  said  them. 

B.  B.  [quite  overcome]  So,  no,  Dubedat.  Not  at 
all. 

Loris.  Yes,  you  have.  I  know  what  you  all 
think  of  me.  Dont  imagine  I'm  sore  about  it.  I  for- 
give you. 

W.\LPOLE  [iniolur.tarilt/]  Well,  damn  me  I  [Ashamed] 
I  beg  your  pardon. 

Lons.  That  was  old  Walpole,  I  know.  Don't  grieve, 
Walpole.  I'm  perfectly  happy.  I'm  not  in  pain.  I 
dont  want  to  live.  Ive  escaped  from  myself.  I'm  in 
heaven,  immortal  in  the  heart  of  my  beautiful  Jennifer. 
I'm  not  afraid,  and  not  ashamed.  [Reflectively,  puz- 
zling it  out  for  himself  n-echly]      I  know  that  in  an  ac- 


100  The  Doctor's  Dilemma       Act  IV 

cidental  sort  of  way,  struggling  through  the  unreal  part 
of  life,  I  havnt  always  boen  able  to  live  up  to  my  ideal. 
But  in  my  own  real  world  I  have  never  done  anything 
wrong,  never  denied  my  faith,  never  been  untrue  to  my- 
self. Ive  been  threatened  and  blackmailed  and  insulted 
and  starved.  But  Ive  played  the  game.  Ive  fought  the 
good  fight.  iVnd  now  it's  all  over,  theres  an  indescribable 
peace.  (  He  fcebli/  folds  his  hands  and  utters  his  creed] 
I  believe  in  Michael  Angelo,  V^clasquez,  and  Rembrandt; 
in  the  might  of  design,  the  mystery  of  color,  the  redemp- 
tion of  all  things  by  Beauty  everlasting,  and  the  message 
of  Art  tliat  has  made  these  hands  blessed.  Amen.  Amen, 
[He  closes  his  eyes  and  lies  still]. 

Mus   Diukdat    [hreathless]       I.ouis:  art^  you — 

IValpole  rises  and  comes  quickly  to  see  whether  he  is 
dead. 

Lofis.  Not  yet,  dear.  \'ery  nearly,  but  not  yet.  I 
should  like  to  rest  my  head  on  your  bosom ;  only  it  would 
tire  you. 

Mrs  Di'BEDAT.  No,  no,  no.  darling:  how  could 
you  tire  me?  \She  lifts  him  so  that  he  lies  on  Iter 
bosom] . 

Loiis.      Thats    good.      Thats  n^al. 

Mrs  Di:BED.\T.  Dont  spare  mt,  dear.  Indeed,  in- 
deed you  will  not  tire  me.  Lean  on  me  with  all  your 
weight. 

Loris  [with  a  sudden  half  return  of  his  normal  strength 
and  comfort]  Jinny  Gwinny:  I  think  I  shall  recover 
after  all.  [.Sir  Patrick  looks  significantly  at  liidgeon, 
riiutcli^    warning   him    that   this   is    the   end]. 

Mrs  Dcbedat   [hopefully]      Yes,  yes:  you  shall. 

Loris.  Because  I  suddenly  want  to  sleep.  Just  an 
ordinary  sleep. 

Mrs  Dvbedat  [rocking  him]  Yes,  dear.  Sleep. 
[He  seems  to  go  to  sleep.  Walpole  makes  another  move- 
ment.    She  protests].     Sh-sh:  please  dont  disturb  him. 


Act  IV      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  101 

[His  lips  move].  Wliat  did  you  say,  dear?  [In  great 
distress]  I  cant  listen  without  moving  him.  [His  lips 
move   again:    jyalpole    bends    down    and   listens]. 

Walpole.  He  wants  to  know  is  the  newspaper  man 
here. 

The  Newspaper  Man  [excited;  for  he  has  been  en- 
joying himsetf  enormously]  Yes,  Mr  Dubedat.  Here 
I  am. 

Walpole  raises  his  hand  warningly  to  silence  him.  Sir 
Ralph  sits  down  quietly  on  the  sofa  and  frankly  buries 
his  face  in   his  handkerchief. 

Mrs  Di'HEDAT  [with  great  relief]  Oh  tliats  right, 
dear:  dont  spare  me:  lean  with  all  your  weight  on  me. 
Now  you  are  really  resting. 

Sir  Patrick  quickly  comes  forward  and  feels  Louis's 
pulse;  then  takes  him  by  the  shoulders. 

Sir  Patrick.  Let  me  put  him  back  on  the  pillow, 
maam.     He  will  be  better  so. 

Mrs  Dubedat  \ piteously]  Oh  no,  please,  please, 
doctor.  He  is  not  tiring  me;  and  he  will  be  so  hurt  when 
he  wakes   if  he   finds   I   have  put  him  away. 

Sir  Patrick.  He  will  never  wake  again.  [He  takes 
the  body  from  her  and  replaces  it  in  the  chair.  Ridg- 
eon,  unmoved,  lets  down  the  back  and  makes  a  bier 
of  it]. 

Mrs  Duredat  [tvho  has  unexpectedly  sprung  to  her 
feet,  and  stands  dry-eyed  and  stately]      Was  that  death .^ 

Walpole.      Yes. 

Mrs  Dubedat  [rvith  complete  dignity]  Will  you  wait 
for  me  a  moment?     I  will  come  back.      [She  goes  out]. 

Walpole.  Ought  we  to  follow  her?  Is  she  in  her 
right  senses  ? 

Sir  Patrick  [with  quiet  conviction].  Yes.  Shes  all 
riglit.     Leave  her  alone.     She'll  come  back. 

RiuGEox  [callously]  Let  us  get  this  thing  out  of  the 
way  before  she  comes. 


102  The  Doctor's  Dilemma      Act  IV 

B.  B.  [rising,  shocked]  My  dear  Colly!  The  poor 
lad!      He  died   splendidly. 

Sir  Patrick.      Aye  !  that  is  how  the  wicked  die. 

For  there  are  no  bands  in  their  death; 

Hut  their  strength  is  firm: 

They  are  not  iu   troubk'  as  other  men. 

No  matter:  it's  not  for  us  to  judge.  He's  in  another 
■world  now. 

Walpole.  Borrowing  his  first  five-pound  note  there, 
probably. 

RnxiEON.  I  said  the  other  day  that  the  most  tragic 
thing  in  the  world  is  a  sick  doctor.  I  was  wrong. 
The  most  tragic  thing  in  the  world  is  a  u)an  of  genius 
who  is  not  .'dso  a  man  of  honor. 

liidgcon  and  ff'<dpolc  trhrel  the  ehair  into  the  reeess. 

The  Newspaper  Max  [to  Sir  Ralph]  I  thought  it 
shewed  a  very  nice  feeling,  his  being  so  particular  about 
his  wife  going  into  proper  mourning  for  hiui  and  mak- 
ing her  jiromise  never  to  marry  .again. 

B.  B.  [iniprexsivehf]  Mrs  Dubedat  is  not  in  a  posi- 
tion to  carry  the  interview  any  further.  Neither 
are  we. 

Sir  Patrick.      Good  afternoon  to  you. 

The  Newspaper  Man.  Mrs.  Dubedat  said  she  was 
coming  back. 

B.  B.     After  you  have  gone. 

The  Newspaper  Man.  Do  you  think  she  would  give 
me  a  few  words  on  Htiw  It  Feels  to  be  a  Widow? 
Rather  a  good  title  for  an  article,  isnt  it? 

B.  B.  Young  man:  if  you  wait  until  Mrs  Dubedat 
comes  back,  you  will  be  able  to  write  an  article  on  How 
It  Feels  to  be  Turned  Out  of  tlie  House. 

The  Newspaper  Max  \  unconvinced]  You  think 
she'd  rather  not — 

B.  B.  [cutting  him  short]     Good  day  to  you.     [Giving 


) 

I 


Act  IV       The  Doctor's  Dilemma  103 

him  a  visiting-cord]  Mind  you  get  my  name  correctly. 
Good  day. 

The  Xfwspapeu  Man.  Good  day.  Thank  you. 
[J'aguely  tri/itig  to  read  the  card]      Mr — 

B.  B.  No,  not  Mister.  This  is  your  hat,  I  think 
[giving  it  to  /i/77jj.  Gloves?  No.  of  course:  no  gloves. 
Good  day  to  you.  \He  edges  him  out  at  last;  shuts  the 
door  on  him;  and  returns  to  Sir  Patrick  as  Ridgcon  and 
JValpoIe  come  hack  from  the  recess,  JValpole  crossing 
the  room  to  flic  iiat-stand,  and  Ridgeon  coming  betrreen 
Sir  Ralph  and  Sir  J^ntricl,-].  Poor  fellow!  I*oor  young 
fellow !     How  well  he  died !     I  feel  a  better  man,  really. 

Sir  Patrick.  When  youre  as  old  as  I  am,  youll  know 
that  it  matters  very  little  how  a  man  dies.  What  matters 
is,  how  he  lives.  Every  fool  that  runs  his  nose  against 
a  bullet  is  a  hero  nowadays,  because  he  dies  for  his 
country.     Wliy  dont  he  li\e  for  it  to  some  purpose? 

B.  B.  No.  please,  I'addy :  dont  be  hard  on  the  poor 
lad.  Not  now,  not  now.  After  all,  was  he  so  bad?  He 
had  only  two  failings:  money  and  women.  Well,  let  us 
be  honest.  Tell  the  truth,  Paddy.  Dont  be  liypocritical, 
Ridgeon.  Throw  off  the  mask,  Walpole.  Are  these 
two  matters  so  well  arranged  at  present  that  a  disregard 
of  the  usual  arrangements  indicates  real  depravity? 

\\'alpole.  I  dont  mind  his  disregarding  the  usual 
arrangements.  Confound  the  usual  arrangements  !  To  a 
man  of  science  theyre  beneath  contempt  both  as  to  money 
and  women.  What  I  mind  is  his  disregarding  every- 
thing except  his  own  pocket  and  his  own  fancy.  He 
didnt  disregard  the  usual  arrangements  when  they  paid 
him.  Did  he  give  us  his  pictures  for  nothing?  Do  you 
suppose  he'd  have  hesitated  to  blackmail  me  if  I'd  com- 
promised myself  with  his  wife?     Not  he. 

Sir  Patrick.  Dont  waste  your  time  wrangling  over 
him.  A  blackguard's  a  blackguard;  an  honest  man's  an 
honest  man;  and  neither  of  them  will  ever  be  at  a  loss 


104  The  Doctor's  Dilemma      Act  IV 

for  a  religion  or  a  morality  to  prove  that  their  ways  are 
the  right  ways.  It's  the  same  with  nations,  tlie  same 
with  })rofcssions,  the  same  all  the  world  over  and  always 
will  be. 

B.  B.  Ah,  well,  perhaps,  perhaps,  perhaps.  Still, 
de  mortuis  nil  nisi  bo  num.  He  died  extremely  well, 
remarkably  well.  He  has  set  us  an  example:  let  us  en- 
deavor to  follow  it  rather  than  harp  on  the  weaknesses 
that  have  perished  with  him.  I  think  it  is  Shakespear 
who  says  that  the  good  that  most  men  do  lives  after 
them:  the  evil  lies  interred  with  their  bones.  Yes:  in- 
terred with  their  bones.  Believe  me,  Paddy,  we  are  all 
mortal.  It  is  the  common  lot,  Ridgeon.  Say  what  you 
will,  WaljKjlc,  Nature's  debt  must  be  paid.  If  tis  not 
to-day,  twill  be  to-morrow. 

To-morrow  and  to-morrow  and   to-morrow 

AftiT  lifos   fitful   fevor   tlu-y   .sleep   well 

And  like  this  in.sub.sLiintial   bourne  froai  which 

No  traveller  returns 

Leave  not  a  wrack  behind. 

Walpole  is  about  to  speak,  but  B.  B.,  suddenly  and 
vehemently  proceeding,  extinguishes   him. 

Out.  out.  brief  candle: 
For  nothing  canst  thou  to  damnation  add 
The  readine&s  is  all. 

Walpole  [gently;  for  B.  B.'s  feeling,  absurdly  ex- 
pressed as  it  is,  is  too  sincere  and  humane  to  be  ridi- 
culed] Yes,  B.  B.  Death  makes  people  go  on  like  that. 
I  dont  know  why  it  should;  but  it  does.  By  the  way, 
what  are  we  going  to  do?  Ought  we  to  clear  out;  or 
had  we  better  wait  and  see  whether  Mrs  Dubedat  will 
come  back? 

Sir  P.\trick.  I  think  we'd  better  go.  We  can  tell 
the  charwoman  what  to  do. 


Act  IV      The  Doctor's  Dilemma  105 

T'hey  take  their  hots  and  go  to  the  door. 

Mks  Dubedat    [coming  from  the  inner  door  tvonder- 

fnlly    and  heaiitiftdly   dressed,   and   radiant,    carrying   a 

great  piece  of  purple  silk,  handsomely  embroidered,  over 

her  aryn]      I'm  so  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting. 

fDont  mention  it,  madam. 
[amaced,  all 

together  iti^ 

a  confused 

murmur] 


Sir  Patrick 
B.  B. 

RiDGEON 

Walpole 


Not  at  all,  not  at  all. 
By  no  means. 
It  doesnt  matter  in  the 
least. 

Mrs  Dtbedat  [coming  to  thein]  I  felt  that  I  must 
shake  hands  with  his  friends  once  before  we  part  to-day. 
We  have  shared  together  a  great  privilege  and  a  great 
happiness.  I  dont  think  we  can  ever  think  of  ourselves 
as  ordinary  people  again.  We  have  had  a  wonderful  ex- 
perience ;  and  that  gives  us  a  common  faith,  a  common 
ideal,  tli.it  nobody  else  can  quite  have.  Life  will  always 
be  beautiful  to  us:  death  will  always  be  beautiful  to  us. 
May  we  shake  hands  on  that  ? 

Sir  Patrick  [shaking  hands]  Remember:  all  letters 
had  better  be  left  to  your  solicitor.  Let  him  open  every- 
thing and  settle  everything.     Thats  the  law,  you  know. 

Mrs  Dubedat.  Oli,  thank  you:  I  didnt  know.  [Sir 
Patrick  goes]. 

Walpole.  Good-bye.  I  blame  myself:  I  should  have 
insisted  on  operating.      [^He  goes]. 

B.  B.  I  will  send  the  proper  people:  they  will  know 
what  to  do:  you  shall  have  no  trouble.  Good-bye,  my 
dear  lady.     [He  goes]. 

Ridgeon.      Good-bye.       [He   offers   his   hand]. 

Mrs  Dubedat  [drawing  back  with  gentle  majesty]  I 
said  his   friends.   Sir   Colenso.      [He  bows  and  goes]. 

She  unfolds  the  great  piece  of  silk,  and  goes  into  the 
recess  to  cover  her  dead. 


ACT    V 

One  of  the  stuallrr  Bond  Street  Picture  Galleries. 
The  entrance  is  from  a  picture  shop.  Xearly  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  ^allrrtf  there  is  a  trriting-iahle,  at  which  the 
Secretary,  fasliiouiddtf  dressed,  sits  tvith  his  back  to  the 
entrance,  correcting  catalogue  proofs.  Some  copies  of  a 
new  book  are  on  the  desk,  also  the  Secretary's  shininf^ 
hat  and  a  couple  of  magnifi/inir  glasses.  At  tlte  side,  on 
his  left,  a  little  behind  him,  is  a  small  door* marked  Pki- 
VATE.  Xear  the  same  side  is  a  cushioned  bench  parallel 
to  the  n-alls,  trhich  are  covered  uith  Dubcdat's  norhs. 
Two  screens,  also  covered  with  dratrings,  stand  near  the 
corners  right   and  left  of  the  entrance. 

Jennifer,  beautifully  dressed  and  apparently  I'fry 
happy  and  prosperous,  comes  into  the  gallery  through 
the  private  door. 

Jennifeh.  Have  the  eatalogues  come  yet,  Mr 
Dan  by  ? 

The  Sechetahy.      Not  yet. 

Jennifer.  What  a  sliame !  It's  a  quarter  past:  the 
private  view  will  begin  in  less  than  half  an  hour. 

The  Secretary.  I  think  I'd  better  run  over  to  the 
printers  to  hurry  them  up. 

Jennifer.  Oh.  if  you  would  be  so  good,  Mr  Danby. 
I'll  take  your  place  while  youre  away. 

The  Secretary.  If  anyone  sliould  come  before  the 
time  dont  take  any  notice.  The  commissionaire  wont  let 
anyone  through  unless  he  knows  him.  We  have  a  few 
people  who  like  to  come  before  the  crowd — people  who 
really  buy;  and  of  course  we're  glad  to  see  them.     Have 

106 


Act  V         The  Doctor's  Dilemma  107 

you  seen  the  noticfs  in  Bnisli  and  Crayon  and  in  Tlie 
Easel  ? 

Jennifer  {itidiisnantli/]  Yes:  most  disgraceful.  They 
write  quite  j)atronizinji;ly,  as  if  the}'  were  Mr  Duhedafs 
superiors.  After  all  the  cigars  and  sandwiches  they  had 
from  us  on  the  press  day,  and  all  they  drank,  I  really 
think  it  is  infamous  that  they  should  write  like  that.  I 
hope  you  have  not  sent  them  tickets  for  to-day. 

The  Sechetahy.  Oh,  they  wont  come  again:  theres 
no  lunch  to-day.  The  advance  cnjjies  of  your  hook  have 
come.      [He  indicatrs  the  new  hool:s\. 

Jennifer  {pouncing  on  a  copi/,  wildhf  ejeited]  Give 
it  to  me.  Oh !  excuse  me  a  moment  [she  runs  away  with 
it  through  the  private  door\. 

l^he  Secreturif  takes  a  mirror  from  his  drawer  and 
S7nartens  himself  before  going  out.     Ridgeon  comes  in. 

RiDOEON.  Good  morning.  May  I  look  round,  as 
usual,  hefore  the  doors  oj)en  ? 

The  Secretary.  Certainly,  Sir  Colenso.  I'm  sorry 
the  catalogues  have  not  come:  I'm  just  going  to  see  about 
them.     Heres  my  own  list,  if  you  dont  mind. 

Rn^GEON.  Thanks.  Whats  this.^  [He  takes  up  one 
of  the  new  books]. 

The  Secretary.  Thats  just  come  in.  An  advance 
copy  of  Mrs  Dul)edat'.>»  Life  of  her  late  husb.and. 

RiUGEON  I  reading  the  title]  The  Story  of  a  King  of 
Men.  By  His  Wife.  [He  looks  at  the  portrait  frontis- 
piece]. Ay:  there  he  is.  You  knew  him  here,  I  sup- 
pose. 

The  Secretary.  Oh,  we  kn^w  him.  Better  than  she 
did.  Sir  Colenso,  in  some  ways,  perhaps. 

Ridgeon.  So  did  I.  |  They  look  significantly  at  one 
another],     I'll  take  a  look  round. 

The  Secretary  puts  on  the  shining  hat  and  goes  out. 
Ridgeon  begins  looking  at  the  pictures.  Presently  he 
comes  back  to  the  table  for  a  magnifying  glass,  and  scru- 
tinizes a   drawing  very   closely.      He  sighs;  shakes   his 


108  The  Doctor's  Dileninia        Act  V 

head,  as  if  constrained  to  admit  the  extraordinary  fasci- 
nation and  merit  of  the  work;  then  marks  the  Secretary's 
list.  Proceeding  with  his  survey,  he  disappears  behind 
the  screen.  Jennifer  comes  back  with  her  book.  A  look 
round  satisfies  her  that  sJie  is  (done.  She  scats  herself 
at  the  table  and  admires  the  memoir — her  first  printed 
book — to  her  heart's  content.  liidgeon  re-appears,  face 
to  the  wall,  scrutinising  the  drarvings.  After  using  his 
glass  again,  he  steps  back  to  get  a  more  distant  vieiif  of 
one  of  the  larger  pictures.  She  hastily  closes  the  book  at 
the  sound;  looks  round;  recognizes  him;  and  stares,  pet- 
rified. He  takes  a  further  step  back  which  brings  him 
nearer  to  her. 

RiDGEox  [shaking  his  head  as  before^  ejaculates] 
C'levtr  brute!  [She  flushes  as  though  he  had  struck  her. 
He  turns  to  put  the  ghss  down  on  the  desk,  and  finds 
himself  face  to  face  with  her  intent  gaze].  I  beg  your 
pardon.     I  thought  I  was  alone. 

Jennifer  [controlling  herself,  end  speaking  steadily 
and  meaningly]  I  am  glad  we  have  met.  Sir  Colenso 
Ridgeon.  I  met  Dr  Blcnkinsop  yesterday.  I  congratu- 
late you  on  a  wonderful  cure. 

Ridgeon  [can  find  no  words:  makes  an  embarrassed 
gesture  of  assent  after  a  moment's  silence,  and  puts  dorvn 
the  glass  and  the  Secretary's  list  on  the  table]. 

Jennifer.  He  looked  the  picture  of  health  and 
strength  and  prosperity.  [She  looks  for  a  htoment  at 
the  walls,  contrasting  Blenkinsop's  fortune  with  the  ar- 
tist's fate]. 

Ridgeon  [in  low  tones,  still  embarrassed]  He  has 
been  fortunate. 

Jennifer.    Very  fortimate.    His  life  has  been  spared. 

Ridgeon.  I  mean  that  he  has  been  made  a  Medical 
Officer  of  Health.  He  cured  the  Chairman  of  the  Bor- 
ough Council  very  successfully. 

Jennifer.     With  your  medicines? 


Act  V         The  Doctor's  Dilemma  109 

RiDGEON.  No.  I  believe  it  was  with  a  pound  of  ripe 
greengages. 

Jennifer   [with  deep  gravity]      Funny! 

RiDGEoN.  Yes.  Life  does  not  cease  to  be  funny 
when  people  die  any  more  than  it  ceases  to  be  serious 
when  people  laugh. 

Jennifer.  Dr  Blenkinsop  said  one  very  strange 
thing  to  me. 

RiDGEON.      What  was  that.'' 

Jennifer.  He  said  that  private  practice  in  medicine 
ought  to  be  put  down  by  law.  When  I  asked  him  why, 
he  said  that  private  doctors  were  ignorant  licensed  mur- 
derers. 

RiDGEON.  That  is  what  the  public  doctor  always 
thinks  of  the  private  doctor.  Well,  Blenkinsop  ought  to 
know.  He  was  a  private  doctor  long  enough  himself. 
Come !  you  have  talked  at  me  long  enough.  Talk  to  me. 
You  have  something  to  reproach  me  with.  There  is  re- 
proach in  your  face,  in  your  voice:  you  are  full  of  it. 
Out  with  it'. 

Jennifer.  It  is  too  late  for  reproaches  now.  When 
I  turned  and  saw  you  just  now,  I  wondered  how  you 
could  come  here  coolly  to  look  at  his  pictures.  You  an- 
swered the  question.     To  you,  he  was  only  a  clever  brute. 

RiDGEON  [quivering]  Oh,  dont.  You  know  I  did  not 
know  you  were  here. 

Jennifer  [raisirig  her  head  a  little  with  a  quite  gentle 
impulse  of  pride]  You  think  it  onl}'  mattered  because 
I  heard  it.  As  if  it  could  touch  me,  or  touch  him !  Dont 
you  see  that  what  is  really  dreadful  is  that  to  you  living 
things  have  no  souls. 

RiDGEON  [with  a  sceptical  shrug]  The  soul  is  an 
organ  I  have  not  come  across  in  the  course  of  my  anatom- 
ical work. 

Jennifer.  You  know  you  would  not  dare  to  say  such 
a  silly  thing  as  that  to  anybody  but  a  woman  whose  mind 


110  The  Doctor's  Dilemma        Act  V 

you  despise.  If  you  dissected  me  you  could  not  find  my 
conscience.     Do  you  think  I  have  got  none.'' 

RiDGEON.      I  have  met  people  who  had  none. 

Jennifer.  Clever  brutes.^  Do  you  know,  doctor, 
that  some  of  the  dearest  and  most  faithful  friends  I  ever 
had  were  only  brutes !  You  would  have  vivisected  them. 
The  dearest  and  greatest  of  all  my  friends  had  a  sort  of 
beauty  and  atfectionateness  that  only  animals  have.  I 
hope  you  may  never  feel  what  I  felt  when  I  had  to  put 
him  into  tlie  hands  of  men  who  defend  the  torture  of  ani- 
mals because  tliey  are  only  brutes. 

RiDGEON.  ^^'ell,  did  you  rind  us  so  very  cruel,  after 
all }  They  tell  me  that  though  you  have  dropped  me,  you 
stay  for  weeks  with  the  Bloomrield  Boningtons  and  the 
Walpoles.  I  think  it  must  be  true,  because  they  never 
mention  you  to  me  now. 

Jennifer.  The  animals  in  Sir  Ralph's  house  are  like 
spoiled  children.  When  Mr.  Walpole  had  to  take  a  splin- 
ter out  of  the  mastiff's  paw,  I  liad  to  hold  the  poor  dog 
myself;  and  Mr  ^^'alpole  had  to  turn  Sir  Ralph  out  of 
the  room.  And  Mrs.  Walpole  has  to  tell  the  gardener 
not  to  kill  wasps  when  Mr.  Walpole  is  looking.  But 
there  are  doctors  who  are  naturally  cruel;  and  there  are 
others  who  get  used  to  cruelty  and  are  callous  about  it. 
They  blind  themselves  to  the  souls  of  animals ;  and  that 
blinds  them  to  the  souls  of  men  and  women.  You  made 
a  dreadful  mistake  about  Louis;  but  you  would  not  have 
made  it  if  you  had  not  trained  yourself  to  make  the  same 
mistake  about  dogs.  You  saw  nothing  in  them  but  dumb 
brutes ;  and  so  you  could  see  nothing  in  him  but  a  clever 
brute. 

RiDGEON  [n>ith  sudden  resolution]  I  made  no  mistake 
whatever  about  him. 

Jennifer.     Oh,  doctor! 

RiDGEON  [obstinatslif^  I  made  no  mistake  whatever 
about  him. 


Act  V        The  Doctor's  Dilemma  111 

Jennifer.     Have  you  forgotten  that  he  died? 

RiDGEON  [^TvitJr  a  sweep  of  his  hand  towards  the  pic- 
inres]  He  is  not  dead.  He  is  there.  [Taking  up  the 
hook]     And  there. 

Jennifer  [springing  up  with  blazing  eyes'\  Put  that 
down.     How  dare  you  touch  it.'' 

Ridgeon,  amazed  at  the  fierceness  of  the  outburst,  puts 
it  down  with  a  deprecatory  shrug.  She  takes  it  up  and 
looks  at  it  as  of  he  had  profaned  a  relic. 

Ridgeon.  I  am  very  sorry.  I  see  I  had  bet- 
ter go. 

Jennifer  [putting  the  book  down]  I  beg  your  par- 
don. I — I  forgot  myself.  But  it  is  not  yet — it  is  a  pri- 
vate copy. 

Ridgeon.  But  for  me  it  would  have  been  a  very  dif- 
ferent book. 

Jennifer.  But  for  you  it  would  have  been  a  longer 
one. 

Ridgeon.     You  know  then  that  I  killed  him? 

Jennifer  [suddenly  moved  and  softened]  Oh,  doctor, 
if  you  acknowledge  that — if  you  liave  confessed  it  to 
yourself — if  you  realize  what  you  have  done,  then  there 
is  forgiveness.  I  trusted  in  your  strength  instinctively  at 
first;  then  I  thought  I  had  mistaken  callousness  for 
strength.  Can  you  blame  me?  But  if  it  was  really 
strength — if  it  was  only  such  a  mistake  as  we  all  make 
sometimes — it  will  make  me  so  happy  to  be  friends  with 
you  again. 

Ridgeon.  I  tell  you  I  made  no  mistake.  I  cured 
Blenkinsop:  was  there  any  mistake  there? 

Jennifer.  He  recovered.  Oh,  dont  be  foolishly 
proud,  doctor.  Confess  to  a  failure,  and  save  our  friend- 
ship. Remember,  Sir  Ralph  gave  Louis  your  medicine; 
and  it  made  him  worse. 

Ridgeon.  I  cant  be  your  friend  on  false  pretences. 
Something  has  got  me  by  the  throat :  the  truth  must  come 


112  The  Doctor's  Dilemma        Act  V 

out.  I  used  that  medicine  myself  on  Blenkinsop.  It  did 
no  make  him  worse.  It  is  a  dangerous  medicine:  it  cured 
Blenkinso}):  it  killed  Louis  Duoedat.  When  I  handle  it, 
it  cures.  When  another  man  handles  it,  it  kills — some- 
times. 

Jennifer  [naivclij:  not  ijct  taking  it  all  in]  Then 
why  did  you  let  Sir  Ralph  give  it  to  Louis  .^ 

RiDGEON.  I'm  going  to  tell  you.  I  did  it  because  I 
was  in  love  with  you. 

Jennifer  [innocenil i/  surprised]  In  lo —  You!  an 
elderly  man  I 

Rii>geon  [thiimlcrstnich-,  raisiiiir  his  fists  to  heaven] 
Dubedat:  thou  art  avenged!  [lie  drops  his  hands  and 
collapses  on  the  bench].  I  never  thought  of  tlwt.  I  sup- 
pose I  appear  to  you  a  ridiculous  old  fogey. 

Jennifer.  But  surely — I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you, 
indeed — but  you  nnist  be  at  least  twenty  years  older  than 
I   am. 

RiUGEON.  Oh,  (juite.  More,  perhaps.  In  twenty 
3'ears  you  will  understand  how  little  difference  that 
makes. 

Jennifer.  But  even  so,  how  could  you  think  that  I 
— his  wife — could  ever  think  of  you — 

RiUGEON  [stopping  her  with  a  nervous  waving  of  his 
fingers]  Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes:  I  quite  understand:  you 
neednt  rub  it  in. 

Jennifer.  But — oh,  it  is  only  dawning  on  me  now — 
I  was  so  surprised  at  first — do  you  dare  to  tell  me  that 
it  was  to  gratify  a  miserable  jealousy  that  you  deliber- 
ately— oh  !  oh  !  you  murdered  him. 

Ridgeon.      I  think  I  did.     It  really  comes  to  that. 

Thou  shalt  not  kill,  but  needst  not  strive 
Officiously  to  keep  alive. 

I  suppose — yes :  I  killed  him. 


Act  V         The  Doctor's  Dilemma  113 

Jennifer.  And  you  tell  me  that!  to  my  face!  cal- 
lously!    You  are  not  .ifraid! 

RiDGEON.  I  am  a  doctor:  I  have  nothing  to  fear.  It 
is  not  an  indictable  ott'ence  to  call  in  B.  B.  Perhaps  it 
ought  to  be ;  but  it  isnt. 

Jennifer.  I  did  not  mean  that.  I  meant  afraid  of 
my  talking  the  law  into  my  own  hands,  and  killing  you. 

RiUGEON.  I  am  so  hopelessly  idiotic  about  3'ou  that  I 
should  not  mind  it  a  bit.  You  would  always  remember 
me  if  you  did  that. 

Jennifer.  I  shall  remember  you  always  as  a  little 
man  who  tried  to  kill  a  great  one. 

RiDGEON.      Pardon  me.     I  succeeded. 

Jennifer  [tvith  quiet  conviction^  No.  Doctors  think 
they  hold  tlie  keys  of  life  and  death;  but  it  is  not  their 
will  that  is  fulrilled.  I  dont  believe  you  made  any  differ- 
ence at  all. 

RiuGEON.      Perha])s  not.     But  I  intended  to. 

Jennifer  [looking  at  him  amazedly :  not  nithont  pity] 
And  you  tried  to  destroy  that  wonderful  and  beautiful 
life  merely  because  you  grudged  him  a  woman  whom  you 
could  never  have  expected  to  care  for  you ! 

RiDGEON.  Who  kissed  my  hands.  Who  believed  in 
me.     Who  told  me  her  friendship  lasted  until  death. 

Jennifer.     And  whom  you  were  betraying. 

Riugeon.     No.     Whom  I  was  saving, 

Jennifer  [gently]     Pray,  doctor,  from  what? 

RiDGEON.  From  making  a  terrible  discovery.  From 
having  your  life  laid  waste. 

Jennifer.     How.'' 

RiDGEON.  No  matter.  I  have  saved  jon.  I  have 
been  the  best  friend  3'ou  ever  had.  You  are  happ}-.  Y,.u 
are  well.  His  works  are  an  imperishable  joy  and  pride 
for  you. 

Jennifer.  And  you  think  that  is  your  doing.  Oh 
doctor,  doctor!     Sir  Patrick  is  right:  you  do  think  you 


114  The  Doctor's  Dilemma        Act  V 

are  a  little  god.  How  can  you  be  so  silly?  You  did  not 
paint  those  pictures  which  are  niv  imperishable  joy  and 
pride:  you  did  not  speak  the  words  that  will  always  be 
heavenly  nuisic  in  my  ears.  I  listen  to  them  now  when- 
ever I  am  tired  or  sad.     That  is  why  I  am  always  happy. 

RiDGEON.  Yes,  now  that  he  is  dead.  Were  you  al- 
ways happy  when  he  was  alive.** 

Jennifer  [noutided]  Oh,  you  are  cruel,  cruel.  \Mien 
he  was  alive  I  did  not  know  the  greatness  of  my  blessing. 
I  worried  meanly  about  little  tilings.  I  was  unkind  to 
him.     I  was  unworthy  of  him. 

RiDGEON   [laughing  hifterly]      Ha! 

Jennifer.  Dont  insult  me:  dont  blaspheme.  [She 
snatches  up  the  book  and  presses  it  to  her  heart  in  a  pa- 
rojystn  of  remorse,  ejrclaiming]     Oh,  my  King  of  Men! 

RinoEoN.  King  of  Men!  Oh,  this  is  too  monstrous, 
too  grotesfjue.  ^\'e  erutl  doctors  have  ktj)t  the  secret 
from  you  faithfully;  but  it  is  like  all  secrets:  it  will  not 
not  keep  itself.  The  buried  truth  germinates  and  breaks 
through  to  the  light. 

Jennifer.     What  truth? 

RiDGEON.  What  truth!  Why,  that  Louis  Dubedat, 
King  of  Men,  Mas  the  most  entire  and  i)erfect  scoundrel, 
the  most  miraculously  mean  rascal,  the  most  callously 
selfish  blackguard  that  ever  made  a  wife  miserable. 

Jennifer  [unshaken :  calm  and  lovely]  He  made  his 
wife  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world,  doctor. 

RiDGEON.  ^so:  by  all  thats  true  on  earth,  he  made  his 
widow  the  hajipiest  woman  in  the  world;  but  it  was  I 
who  made  her  a  widow.  And  her  ha]ij)iness  is  my  justi- 
fication and  my  reward.  Now  you  know  what  I  did  and 
what  1  thought  of  him.  Be  as  angry  with  me  as  vou 
like:  at  least  you  know  me  as  I  really  am.  H  you  ever 
come  to  care  for  an  elderly  man,  vou  will  know  what  you 
are  caring  for. 

Jennifer  [kind  and  quiet]     I  am  not  angry  with  you 


Act  V         The  Doctor's  Dilenmia  115 

any  more.  Sir  Colenso.  I  knew  quite  well  that  you  did 
not  like  Louis;  but  it  is  not  your  fault:  you  dont  under- 
stand :  that  is  all.  You  never  could  have  believed  in  him. 
It  is  just  like  your  not  believing  in  my  religion:  it  is  a 
sort  of  sixth  sense  that  you  have  not  got.  And  [with  a 
gentle  reassuring  movement  towards  hini]  dont  think  that 
3'ou  have  shoeked  me  so  dreadfully.  I  know  quite  well 
what  you  mean  by  his  selfishness.  He  sacrificed  every- 
thing for  his  art.  In  a  certain  sense  he  had  even  to  sac- 
rifice everybody — 

RiDGEON.  Everybody  except  himself.  By  keeping 
that  back  he  lost  the  right  to  sacrifice  you,  and  gave  me 
the  right  to  sacrifice  him.     A\'hich  I  did. 

Jennifer  [shaking  her  head,  pitying  his  error]  He 
was  one  of  the  men  who  know  what  women  know :  that 
self-sacrifice  is  vain  and  cowardly. 

RiDGEON.  Yes,  when  the  sacrifice  is  rejected  and 
thrown  away.     Not  when  it  becomes  the  food  of  godhead. 

Jennifer.  I  dont  understand  that.  And  I  cant  argue 
with  you:  you  are  clever  enough  to  j)uzzle  me,  but  not  to 
shake  me.  You  are  so  utterly,  so  wildly  wrong;  so  inca- 
pable of  appreciatmg  Louis — 

RiDGEON.  Oh  I  [taking  up  the  Secretary's  list]  I 
have  marked  five  pictures  as  sold  to  me. 

Jennifer.  They  will  not  be  sold  to  you.  Louis' 
creditors  insisted  on  selling  them;  but  this  is  my  birth- 
day ;  and  they  were  all  bought  in  for  me  this  morning  by 
my  husband. 

RiDGEON.     By  whom.^  !  !  ! 

Jennifer.      By  my  husband. 

RiDGEON  [gabbling  and  stuttering]  '\'Miat  husband? 
^Those  husband.^  AVhich  husband.^  ^^^lom.^  how.'*  what.^ 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  married  again.'' 

Jennifer.  Do  you  forget  that  Louis  disliked  wid- 
ows, and  that  people  Who  have  married  happily  once 
always  marry  again .'' 


116  The  Doctor's  Dilemma        Act  V 

RiDGEON.  Then  I  have  committed  a  purely  disinte- 
rested murder ! 

The  Secretary  returns  ivith  a  pile  of  catulogucs. 

The  Secretary.  Just  got  tlie  first  batch  of  cata- 
logues in  time.     The  doors  are  open. 

Jennifer  [to  liiJgion,  politcly~\  So  ghid  you  like 
the  pictures,  Sir  Colenso.     Good  morning. 

RiDGEON.  Good  morning.  [He  goes  towards  the 
door;  hesitates;  turns  to  say  something  more;  gives  it  up 
as  a  bad  job;  and  goes] . 


^   V 


GETTING   MARRIED 
XVII 

1908 


X.B. — There  is  a  point  of  some  technical  interest  to  be 
noted  in  this  jilay.  Tlie  custoinarj*  division  into  acts 
and  scenes  has  been  disused,  and  a  return  made  to  unity 
of  time  and  place,  as  observed  in  the  ancient  Greek  drama. 
In  the  forejfoing  tragedy.  The  Doctor's  Dilemma,  there 
are  five  acts  :  the  place  is  altered  five  times ;  and  the 
time  is  spread  over  an  imdetermined  period  of  more 
than  a  year.  No  doubt  the  strain  on  the  attention  of 
the  audience  and  on  the  iiifjenuity  of  the  piaywVi^ht  is 
nnich  less;  but  I  find  in  practice  that  the  Greek  form 
is  inevitable  when  drama  reaches  a  certain  point  in 
poetic  and  intellectual  evolution.  Its  adoption  was  not, 
on  my  part,  a  deliberate  (lisi)!ay  of  virtuosity  in  form, 
but  simply  the  spontaneous  faliinj?  of  a  play  of  itleas 
into  the  form  most  suitable  to  it,  which  turned  out  to 
be  the  classical  form.  Getting  Married,  in  several  acts 
and  scenes,  with  the  time  spread  over  a  long  period, 
would  be  impossible. 


PREFACE    TO    GETTING    MARRIED 
The  Revolt  against  JNIarriage 

There  is  no  subject  on  which  more  dangerous  nonsense 
is  talked  and  tliought  than  marriage.  If  the  mischief 
stopped  at  talking  and  thinking  it  would  be  bad  enough; 
but  it  goes  further,  into  disastrous  anareh'cal  action.  Be- 
cause our  marriage  law  is  inhuman  and  unreasonable  to 
the  ]ioiut  of  downright  abomination,  tlie  bolder  and  more 
rebellious  spirits  form  illicit  unions,  defiantly  sending 
cards  round  to  their  friends  announcing  what  they  have 
done.  Young  women  come  to  me  and  ask  me  wliether  I 
think  they  ought  to  consent  to  marry  the  man  they  have 
decided  to  live  with ;  and  tliey  are  perplexed  and  aston- 
ished when  I,  who  am  supposed  (heaven  knows  why!) 
to  have  the  most  advanced  views  attainable  on  the  sub- 
ject, urge  them  on  no  account  to  compromize  themselves 
"without  the  security  of  an  authentic  wedding  ring.  They 
cite  the  example  of  George  Eliot,  who  formed  an  illicit 
union  with  I.ewes.  They  quote  a  saying  attributed 
to  Nietzsche,  that  a  married  philosopher  is  ridiculous, 
though  the  men  of  their  choice  are  not  philosophers. 
When  they  finally  give  up  the  idea  of  reforming  our  mar- 
riage institutions  by  private  enterprise  and  personal 
righteousness,  and  consent  to  be  led  to  the  Registry  or 
even  to  the  altar,  they  insist  on  first  arriving  at  an  ex- 
plicit understanding  that  both  parties  are  to  be  perfectly 
free  to  sip  every  flower  and  change  every  hour,  as  their 
fancy  may  dictate,  in  spite  of  the  legal  bond.     I  do  not 

119 


120  Getting  Married 

observe  that  their  unions  prove  less  monogamic  than  other 
people's:  rather  the  contrary,  in  fact;  consequently,  I  do 
not  know  whether  they  make  less  fuss  than  ordinary  peo- 
ple when  either  party  claims  the  benefit  of  the  treaty; 
but  the  existence  of  the  treaty  shews  the  same  anarchical 
notion  that  the  law  can  be  set  aside  by  any  two  private 
persons  by  the  simple  process  of  promising  one  another 
to  ignore  it. 

ISIarriage  Nevertheless  Inevitable 

Now  most  laws  are,  and  all  laws  ought  to  be,  stronger 
than  the  strongest  individual.  Certainly  the  marriage 
law  is.  The  only  people  who  successfully  evade  it  are 
those  who  actually  avail  themselves  of  its  shelter  by  pre- 
tending to  be  married  when  they  are  not,  and  by  Bohe- 
mians who  have  no  position  to  lose  and  no  career  to  be 
closed.  In  every  other  case  open  violation  of  the  mar- 
riage laws  means  either  doAvnright  ruin  or  such  inconve- 
nience and  disablement  as  a  prudent  man  or  woman 
•would  get  married  ten  times  over  rather  than  face.  And 
these  disablements  and  inconveniences  are  not  even  the 
price  of  freedom;  for,  as  Brieux  has  shewn  so  convinc- 
ingly in  Les  Hannetons,  an  avowedly  illicit  union  is  often 
found  in  practice  to  be  as  tyrannical  and  as  hard  to  es- 
cape from  as  the  worst  legal  one. 

We  may  take  it  then  that  when  a  joint  domestic  estab- 
lishment, involving  questions  of  children  or  property,  is 
contemplated,  marriage  is  in  effect  compulsory  upon  all 
normal  people;  and  until  the  law  is  altered  there  is  noth- 
ing for  us  but  to  make  the  best  of  it  as  it  stands.  Even 
when  no  such  establishment  is  desired,  clandestine  irregu- 
larities are  negligible  as  an  alternative  to  marriage. 
How  common  they  are  nobody  knows;  for  in  spite  of  the 
powerful  protection  afforded  to  the  parties  by  the  law 
of  libel,  and  the  readiness  of  society  on  various  other 


Preface  121 

grounds  to  be  hoodwinked  by  the  keeping  up  of  the  very- 
thinnest  appearances,  most  of  them  are  probably  never 
suspected.  But  they  are  neither  dignified  nor  safe  and 
comfortable,  which  at  once  rules  them  out  for  normal  de- 
cent people.  Marriage  remains  practically  inevitable; 
and  the  sooner  we  acknowledge  this,  the  sooner  we  shall 
set  to  work  to  make  it  decent  and  reasonable. 

What  does  the  Word  JNIarriage  Mean 

However  much  we  may  all  suffer  through  marriage, 
most  of  us  think  so  little  about  it  that  we  regard  it  as  a 
fixed  part  of  the  order  of  nature,  like  gravitation.  Ex- 
cept for  this  error,  which  may  be  regarded  as  constant, 
we  use  the  word  with  reckless  looseness,  meaning  a  dozen 
different  things  by  it,  and  yet  always  assuming  that  to 
a  respectable  man  it  can  have  only  one  meaning.  The 
pious  citizen,  suspecting  the  Socialist  (for  example)  of 
unmentionable  things,  and  asking  him  heatedly  whether 
he  wishes  to  abolish  marriage,  is  infuriated  by  a  sense  of 
unanswerable  quibbling  when  the  Socialist  asks  liim  what 
particular  variety  of  marriage  he  means:  English  civil 
marriage,  sacramental  marriage,  indissoluble  Roman 
Catholic  marriage,  marriage  of  divorced  persons,  Scotch 
marriage,  Irish  marriage,  French,  German,  Turkish,  or 
South  Dakotan  marriage.  In  Sweden,  one  of  the  most 
highly  civilized  countries  in  the  world,  a  marriage  is  dis- 
solved if  both  parties  wish  it,  without  any  question  of 
conduct.  That  is  what  marriage  means  in  Sweden.  In 
Clapham  that  is  what  they  call  by  the  senseless  name  of 
Free  Love.  In  the  British  Empire  we  have  unlimited 
Kiilin  polygamy,  Muslim  polygamy  limited  to  four  wives, 
child  marriages,  and,  nearer  home,  marriages  of  first 
cousins:  all  of  them  abominations  in  the  eyes  of  many 
worthy  persons.  Not  only  may  the  respectable  British 
champion  of  marriage  mean  any  of  these  widely  different 


122  Getting  :Married 

institutions ;  sometimes  he  does  not  mean  marriage  at  all. 
He  means  monogamy,  chastity,  temperance,  respectabil- 
ity, morality,  Christianity,  anti-socialism,  and  a  dozen 
other  things  that  have  no  necessary  connection  with  mar- 
riage. He  often  means  something  tliat  he  dare  not  avov? : 
ownersliip  of  the  })erson  of  another  human  being,  for  in- 
stance. And  he  never  tells  the  truth  about  his  own  mar- 
riage either  to  himself  or  any  one  else. 

^^'ith  those  individualists  who  in  the  mid-XIXth  cen- 
tury dreamt  of  doing  away  with  marriage  altogether  on 
the  ground  that  it  is  a  private  concern  between  the  two 
parties  with  which  society  has  nothing  to  do,  there  is  now 
no  need  to  deal.  The  vogue  of  "  the  self-regarding  ac- 
tion "  has  passed;  and  it  may  be  assumed  without  argu- 
ment tliat  unions  for  the  jmrpose  of  establishing  a  family 
will  continue  to  be  registered  and  regulated  by  the  State. 
Such  registration  is  marriage,  and  will  continue  to  be 
called  marriage  long  after  the  conditions  of  the  registra- 
tion have  changed  so  much  that  no  citizen  now  living 
would  recognize  them  as  marriage  conditions  at  all  if  he 
revisited  the  earth.  There  is  therefore  no  question  of 
abolishing  marriage;  but  there  is  a  very  pressing  question 
of  imjiroving  its  conditions.  I  have  never  met  anybody 
really  in  favor  of  maintaining  marriage  as  it  exists  in 
England  to-day.  A  Roman  Catholic  may  obey  his 
Church  by  assenting  verbally  to  the  doctrine  of  indis- 
soluble marriage.  But  nobody  worth  counting  believes 
directly,  frankly,  and  instinctively  that  when  a  person 
commits  a  murder  and  is  put  into  prison  for  twenty  years 
for  it,  the  free  and  innocent  husband  or  wife  of  that  mur- 
derer should  remain  bound  by  the  marriage.  To  put  it 
briefly,  a  contract  for  better  for  worse  is  a  contract  that 
should  not  be  tolerated.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  is  not  tol- 
erated fully  even  by  the  Roman  Catholic  Church ;  for  Ro- 
man Catholic  marriages  can  be  dissolved,  if  not  by  the 
temporal  Courts,  by  the  Pope.     Indissoluble  marriage  is 


Preface  123 

an  academic  figment,  advocited  only  by  celibates  and  by 
comfortably  married  people  who  imagine  that  if  other 
couj)les  are  uncomfortable  it  must  be  their  own  fault,  just 
as  rich  people  are  apt  to  imagine  that  if  other  people  are 
j)oor  it  serves  them  right.  There  is  always  some  means 
of  dissolution.  The  conditions  of  dissolution  may  vary 
widely,  from  those  on  which  Henry  V^III.  procured  his 
divorce  from  Katharine  of  Arragon  to  the  pleas  on  which 
American  wives  obtain  divorces  (for  instance,  "  mental 
anguish  "  caused  by  the  husband's  neglect  to  cut  his  toe- 
nails) ;  but  there  is  always  some  jjoint  at  which  the  the- 
ory of  the  inviolable  better-for-worse  marriage  breaks 
down  in  practice.  South  Carolina  has  indeed  passed 
what  is  called  a  freak  law  declaring  that  a  marriage  shall 
not  be  dissolved  under  any  circumstances ;  but  such  an 
absurdity  will  probably  be  repealed  or  amended  by  sheer 
force  of  circumstances  before  these  words  are  in  print. 
The  only  question  to  be  considered  is,  What  shall  the 
conditions  of  the  dissolution  be? 

Survivals  of  Sex  Slaverj'- 

If  we  adopt  the  common  romantic  assumption  that  the 
object  of  marriage  is  bliss,  then  the  very  strongest  rea- 
son for  dissolving  a  marriage  is  that  it  shall  be  disagree- 
able to  one  or  other  or  both  of  tiie  parties.  If  we  accept 
the  view  that  tlie  object  of  marriage  is  to  provide  for  the 
production  and  rearing  of  children,  then  childlessness 
should  be  a  conclusive  reason  for  dissolution.  As  neither 
of  these  causes  entitles  married  persons  to  divorce  it  is 
at  once  clear  that  our  marriage  law  is  not  founded  on 
either  assumption.  What  it  is  really  founded  on  is  the 
morality  of  the  tenth  commandment,  wliich  English- 
women will  one  day  succeed  in  obliterating  from  the 
walls  of  our  churches  by  refusing  to  enter  any  building 
where  they  are  publicly  classed  with  a  man's  house,  his 


124  Getting  :Married 

ox,  and  his  ass,  as  his  purchased  cliattols.  In  this  mo- 
rality female  adultery  is  malversation  by  the  woman  and 
theft  by  the  man,  whilst  male  adultery  with  an  uinnarried 
woman  is  not  an  offence  at  all.  But  thoui^h  this  is  not 
only  the  thec^ry  of  our  marriajje  laws,  but  the  practical 
morality  of  many  of  us,  it  is  no  longer  an  avowed  moral- 
ity, nor  does  its  persistence  dej)end  on  marriage;  for  the 
abolition  of  marriage  would,  other  things  remaining  un- 
changed, leave  women  more  effectually  enslaved  than 
they  now  are.  We  shall  come  to  the  question  of  tlie  eco- 
nomic dependence  of  women  on  men  later  on ;  but  at 
present  we  iiad  better  confine  ourselves  to  the  tlieories  of 
marriage  which  we  are  not  ashamed  to  acknowledge  and 
defend,  and  upon  which,  therefore,  marriage  reformers 
will  be  obliged  to  jiroeced. 

We  may,  I  think,  dismiss  from  the  field  of  practical 
jwlitics  tlie  extrt-me  sacerdotal  view  of  marriage  as  a 
sacred  and  indissoluble  covenant,  because  tliough  rein- 
forced by  unhapj)y  marriages  as  all  fanaticisms  are  rein- 
forced by  hun)an  sacrifices,  it  has  btrn  reduced  to  a  pri- 
vate and  socially  inoperative  eccentricity  by  the  introduc- 
tion of  civil  marriage  and  divorce.  Theoretically,  our 
civilly  married  couples  are  to  a  Catholic  as  unmarried 
couples  are:  that  is,  they  are  living  in  ojien  sin.  Practi- 
cally, civilly  married  couples  are  received  in  society,  by 
Catliolics  and  everyone  else,  precisely  as  sacramentally 
married  couples  are;  and  so  are  people  who  have  divorced 
their  wives  or  husbands  and  married  again.  And  yet 
marriage  is  enforced  by  public  opinion  with  such  ferocity 
that  the  least  suggestion  of  laxity  in  its  support  is  fatal 
lo  even  the  highest  and  strongest  reputations,  although 
laxity  of  conduct  is  winked  at  with  grinning  indulgence; 
so  that  we  find  the  austere  Shelley  denounced  as  a  fiend 
in  human  form,  whilst  Nelson,  who  openly  left  his  wife 
and  formed  a  menage  a  trois  with  Sir  William  and  Lady 
Hamilton,  was  idolized.     Shelley  might  have  had  an  ille- 


Preface  125 

gitimate  child  in  every  county  in  Engl.ind  if  he  had  done 
so  frankly  as  a  sinner.  His  unpardonable  offence  was 
that  he  attacked  marriage  as  an  institution.  We  feel  a 
strange  anguisli  of  terror  and  hatred  against  hiui,  as 
against  one  who  tlireatciis  us  with  a  niort  il  injury.  What 
is  the  element  in  liis  proposals  that  produces  this  ciTeet.'' 
The  answer  of  tlie  specialists  is  the  one  already  alludid 
to :  that  the  attack  on  marriage  is  an  attack  on  property ; 
so  that  Shelley  was  something  more  hateful  to  a  husband 
than  a  horse  thief:  to  wit,  a  wife  thief,  and  something 
more  hateful  to  a  wife  than  a  burglar:  namely,  one  who 
would  steal  Jier  husliand's  house  from  over  her  head,  and 
lea\e  her  destitute  and  nameless  on  the  streets.  Now,  no 
doubt  this  accounts  for  a  good  deal  of  anti-Shelleyan 
jjrejudice:  a  prejudice  so  deeply  rooted  in  our  habits 
that,  as  I  have  shewn  in  my  play,  men  who  are  bolder 
freethinkers  than  Shelley  himself  can  no  more  bring 
themselves  to  commit  adultery  than  to  commit  any  com- 
mon theft,  whilst  women  who  loathe  sex  slavery  more 
fiercely  than  Mary  Wollstonecraft  are  unable  to  face  the 
insecurity  and  discredit  of  the  vagabondage  which  is  the 
masterless  woman's  only  alternative  to  celibacy.  But  in 
spite  of  all  this  there  is  a  revolt  against  marriage  which 
has  spread  so  rapidly  within  my  recollection  that  though 
we  all  still  assume  the  existence  of  a  huge  and  dangerous 
majority  which  regards  the  least  hint  of  scepticism  as  to 
the  beauty  and  holiness  of  marriage  as  infamous  and  ab- 
horrent, I  sometimes  wonder  why  it  is  so  difficult  to  find 
an  authentic  living  member  of  this  dreaded  army  of  con- 
vention outside  the  ranks  of  the  people  who  never  think 
about  public  questions  at  all,  and  who,  for  all  their  nu- 
merical weight  and  apparently  invincible  prejudices,  ac- 
cept social  changes  to-day  as  tamely  as  their  forefathers 
accepted  the  Reformation  under  Henry  and  Edward,  the 
Restoration  under  Mary,  and,  after  Mary's  death,  the 
shandygaff  which  Elizabeth  compoxmded  from  both  doc- 


126  Getting  ^larried 

trines  and  called  the  Articles  of  the  Church  of  England. 
If  matters  were  left  to  these  simple  folk,  there  would 
never  be  any  changes  at  all;  and  society  would  perish 
like  a  snake  that  could  not  cast  its  skins.  Nevertheless 
the  snake  does  change  its  skin  in  spite  of  them ;  and  there 
are  signs  that  our  marriage-law  skin  is  causing  discom- 
fort to  thouglitful  people  and  will  presently  be  cast 
whether  the  others  are  satisfied  with  it  or  not.  The  ques- 
tion therefore  arises:  What  is  there  in  marriage  that 
makes  the  thoughtful  people  so  uncomfortable? 


The  New  Attack  on  ^larriage 

The  answer  to  this  question  is  an  answer  which  every- 
body knows  and  nobody  likes  to  give.  What  is  driving 
our  ministers  of  religion  and  statesmen  to  blurt  it  out  at 
last  is  the  plain  fact  that  marriage  is  now  beginning  to 
depopulate  the  country  with  such  alarming  rapidity  that 
we  are  forced  to  throw  aside  our  modesty  like  people 
who,  awakened  by  an  alarm  of  fire,  rush  into  the  streets 
in  their  nightdresses  or  in  no  dresses  at  all.  The  ficti- 
tious Free  Lover,  who  was  supposed  to  attack  marriage 
because  it  thwarted  his  inordinate  affections  and  pre- 
vented him  from  making  life  a  carnival,  has  vanished 
and  given  place  to  the  very  real,  very  strong,  very  austere 
avenger  of  outraged  decency  who  declares  tliat  the  licen- 
tiousness of  marriage,  now  that  it  no  longer  recruits  the 
race,  is  destroying  it. 

As  usual,  this  change  of  front  has  not  yet  been  noticed 
by  our  newspaper  controversialists  and  by  the  suburban 
season-ticket  holders  whose  minds  the  newspapers  make. 
They  still  defend  the  citadel  on  the  side  on  wliich  nobody 
is  attacking  it,  and  leave  its  weakest  front  undefended. 

The  religious  revolt  against  marriage  is  a  very  old  one. 
Christianity  began  with  a  fierce  attack  on  marriage ;  and 


Preface  127 

to  this  day  the  celibacy  of  the  Roman  Catholic  priesthood 
is  a  standing  protest  against  its  compatibility  with  the 
higher  life.  St.  Paul's  reluctant  sanction  of  marriage; 
his  personal  protest  that  he  countenanced  it  of  necessity 
and  against  his  own  conviction;  his  contemptuous  "bet- 
ter to  marry  than  to  burn  "  is  only  out  of  date  in  respect 
of  his  belief  that  the  end  of  the  world  was  at  hand  and 
that  there  was  therefore  no  longer  any  population  ques- 
tion. His  instinctive  recoil  from  its  worst  aspect  as  a 
slavery  to  pleasure  which  induces  two  people  to  accejit 
slavery  to  one  another  has  remained  an  active  force  in 
the  world  to  this  day,  and  is  now  stirring  more  uneasily 
than  ever.  ^\'c  have  more  and  more  Pauline  celibates 
whose  objection  to  marriage  is  the  intolerable  indignity 
of  being  supposed  to  desire  or  live  the  married  life  as 
ordinarily  conceived.  Every  thoughtful  and  observant 
minister  of  religion  is  troubled  by  the  determination  of 
his  flock  to  regard  marriage  as  a  sanctuary  for  pleasure, 
seeing  as  he  does  that  the  known  libertines  of  his  parish 
are  visibly  suffering  much  less  from  intemperance  than 
many  of  the  married  people  who  stigmatize  them  as  mon- 
sters of  vice. 


A  Forgotten  Conference  of  ^larried  ]Men 

The  late  Hugh  Price  Hughes,  an  eminent  Methodist 
divine,  once  organized  in  London  a  conference  of  re- 
spectable men  to  consider  the  subject.  Nothing  came  of 
it  (nor  indeed  could  have  come  of  it  in  the  absence  of 
women)  ;  but  it  had  its  value  as  giving  the  young  sociolo- 
gists present,  of  whom  I  was  one,  an  authentic  notion  of 
what  a  picked  audience  of  respectable  men  understood  by 
married  life.  It  was  certainly  a  staggering  revelation. 
Peter  the  Great  would  have  been  shocked;  Byron  would 
have  been  horrified;  Don  Juan  would  have  fled  from  the 
conference  into  a  monastery.     The  respectable  men  all 


128  Getting  Married 


& 


regarded  the  marriage  ceremony  as  a  rite  ■which  absolved 
them  from  the  laws  of  licalth  and  temperance;  inaugu- 
rated a  life-long  honeymoon;  and  placed  their  pleasures 
on  exactly  the  same  footing  as  their  prayers.  It  seemed 
entirely  proper  and  natural  to  them  that  out  of  every 
twenty-four  hours  of  tlieir  lives  they  should  pass  eight 
shut  up  in  one  room  with  their  wives  alone,  and  this,  not 
birdlike,  for  the  mating  season,  but  all  the  year  round 
and  every  year.  How  they  settled  even  such  minor  ques- 
tions as  to  which  party  should  decide  whether  and  how 
much  the  window  should  be  open  and  how  many  blankets 
should  be  on  the  bed,  and  at  what  hour  they  should  go 
to  bed  and  get  up  so  as  to  avoid  disturbing»one  another's 
sleep,  seemed  insoluble  questions  to  me.  But  the  mem- 
bers of  the  conference  did  not  seem  to  mind.  They  were 
content  to  have  the  wiiole  national  housing  problem 
treated  on  a  basis  of  one  room  for  two  people.  That  was 
the  essence  of  marriage  :or  them. 

Please  remember,  too,  that  there  was  nothing  in  their 
circumstances  to  check  intemperance.  Tliey  were  men 
of  business:  that  is,  men  for  the  most  part  engaged  in 
routine  work  which  exercized  neither  their  minds  nor 
their  bodies  to  the  full  ]iitch  of  their  capacities.  Com- 
pared witli  statesmen,  lirst-ratc  professional  men,  artists, 
and  even  with  laborers  and  artisans  as  far  as  muscular 
exertion  goes,  they  were  underworked,  and  could  spare 
the  fine  edge  of  their  faculties  and  the  last  few  inches  of 
their  chests  without  being  any  the  less  fit  for  their  daily 
routine.  If  I  had  adopted  their  habits,  a  startling  dete- 
rioration would  have  appeared  in  my  writing  before  the 
end  of  a  fortnight,  and  frightened  me  back  to  what  they 
would  have  considered  an  impossible  asceticism.  But 
they  paid  no  penalty  of  which  they  were  conscious. 
They  had  as  much  health  as  they  wanted:  that  is,  they 
did  not  feel  the  need  of  a  doctor.  They  enjoyed  their 
smokes,  their  meals,  their  respectable  clothes,  their  affec- 


Preface  129 

tionate  games  with  their  chiklren,  their  prospects  of 
larger  profits  or  higher  sahirics,  their  Saturday  half 
holidays  and  Sunday  walks,  and  the  rest  of  it.  They 
did  less  than  two  hours  work  a  day  and  took  from  seven 
to  nine  office  hours  to  do  it  in.  And  they  were  no  good 
for  any  mortal  purpose  except  to  go  on  doing  it.  They 
were  respectable  only  by  the  standard  they  themselves 
had  set.  Considered  seriously  as  electors  governing  an 
empire  through  their  votes,  and  choosing  and  maintaiTiing 
its  religious  and  moral  institutions  by  their  powers  of 
social  persecution,  they  were  a  black-coated  army  of  ca- 
lamity. They  were  incapable  of  comprehending  the  in- 
dustries they  were  engaged  in,  the  laws  under  which  they 
lived,  or  the  relation  of  their  country  to  other  countries. 
They  lived  the  lives  of  old  men  contentedly.  They  were 
timidly  conservative  at  the  age  at  which  every  healthy 
human  being  ought  to  be  obstreperously  revolutionary. 
And  their  wives  went  through  the  routine  of  the  kitchen, 
nursery,  and  drawing-room  just  as  they  went  through  the 
routine  of  the  office.  They  had  all,  as  they  called  it,  set- 
tled down,  like  balloons  that  had  lost  their  lifting  margin 
of  gas ;  and  it  was  evident  that  the  process  of  settling 
down  would  go  on  until  they  settled  into  their  graves. 
They  read  old-fashioned  newspapers  with  effort,  and 
were  just  taking  with  avidity  to  a  new  sort  of  paper, 
costing  a  halfpenny,  which  they  believed  to  be  extraordi- 
narily bright  and  attractive,  and  which  never  really  suc- 
ceeded until  it  became  extremely  dull,  discarding  all  seri- 
ous news  and  replacing  it  by  vapid  tittle-tattle,  and  sub- 
stituting for  political  articles  informed  by  at  least  some 
pretence  of  knowledge  of  economics,  history,  and  consti- 
tutional law^  such  paltry  follies  and  sentimentalities, 
snobberies  and  partisaneries,  as  ignorance  can  under- 
stand and  irresponsibility  relish. 

What    they    called    patriotism    was    a    conviction    that 
because  they  were  born  in  Tooting  or  Camberwell,  they 


130  Getting  Married 

were  the  natural  superiors  of  Beethoven,  of  Rodin,  of 
Ibsen,  of  Tolstoy  and  all  other  benighted  foreigners. 
Those  of  them  who  did  not  think  it  wrong  to  go  to  the 
theatre  liked  above  everything  a  ])lay  in  which  the  hero 
was  called  Dick;  was  continually  fingering  a  briar  pipe; 
and,  after  being  overwhelmed  with  admiration  and  aflfec- 
tion  through  three  acts,  was  finally  rewarded  with  the 
legal  possession  of  a  pretty  heroine's  person  on  the 
strength  of  a  staggering  lack  of  virtue.  Indeed  their 
only  conception  of  the  meaning  of  the  word  virtue  was 
abstention  from  stealing  other  men's  wives  or  from  re- 
fusing to  marry  their  daughters. 

As  to  law,  religion,  ethics,  and  constitutional  govern- 
ment, any  counterfeit  could  impose  on  them.  An\'  atheist 
could  pass  himself  off  on  them  as  a  bishoj),  any  anarchist 
as  a  judge,  any  despot  as  a  Whig,  any  sentimental  social- 
ist as  a  Tory,  any  philtre-monger  or  witch-rinder  as  a 
man  of  science,  any  ))hrase-maker  as  a  statesman.  Those 
who  did  not  believe  the  story  of  .lonah  and  the  great  fish 
were  all  the  readier  to  believe  that  metals  can  be  trans- 
muted and  all  diseases  cured  by  radium,  and  that  men 
can  live  for  two  hundred  years  by  drinking  sour  milk. 
Even  these  credulities  involved  too  severe  an  intellectual 
eflPort  for  many  of  them :  it  was  easier  to  grin  and  believe 
nothing.  They  maintained  their  resj)ect  for  themselves 
by  "  playing  the  game  "  (that  is,  doing  what  everybody 
else  did),  and  by  being  good  judges  of  hats,  ties,  dogs, 
pipes,  cricket,  gardens,  flowers,  and  the  like.  They  were 
capable  of  discussing  each  other's  solvency  and  respecta- 
bility with  some  shrewdness,  and  could  carry  out  quite 
complicated  systems  of  paying  visits  and  "  knowing " 
one  another.  They  felt  a  little  vulgar  when  they  spent 
a  day  at  Margate,  and  quite  distinguished  and  travelled 
when  they  spent  it  at  Boulogne.  They  were,  except  as 
to  their  clothes,  "  not  particular  ":  that  is,  they  could  put 
up  with  ugly  sights  and  sounds,  unhealthy  smells,  and 


Preface  131 

inconvenient  houses,  with  inhuman  apathy  and  callous- 
ness. They  had,  as  to  adults,  a  theory  that  human  nature 
is  so  poor  that  it  is  useless  to  trj'  to  make  the  world  any 
better,  whilst  as  to  children  they  believed  that  if  they 
were  only  sufficiently  lectured  and  whipped,  they  could 
be  brought  to  a  state  of  moral  perfection  such  as  no  fa- 
natic has  ever  ascribed  to  his  deity.  Though  they  were 
not  intentionally  malicious,  they  practised  the  most  ap- 
palling cruelties  from  mere  thoughtlessness,  thinking 
nothing  of  imprisoning  men  and  women  for  periods  up 
to  twenty  years  for  breaking  into  their  houses ;  of  treat- 
ing their  children  as  wild  beasts  to  be  tamed  by  a  sys- 
tem of  blows  and  imprisonment  which  thev  called 
education ;  and  of  keeping  pianos  in  their  houses,  not 
for  musical  purposes,  but  to  torment  their  daughters 
with  a  senseless  stupidity  that  would  have  revolted  an 
inquisitor. 

In  short,  dear  reader,  they  were  very  like  you  and  me. 
I  could  fill  a  hundred  pages  with  the  tale  of  our  imbe- 
cilities and  still  leave  much  untold ;  but  what  I  have  set 
down  here  haphazard  is  enough  to  condemn  the  system 
that  produced  us.  The  corner  stone  of  that  system  was 
the  family  and  the  institution  of  marriage  as  we  have  it 
to-day  in  England. 

Hearth  and  Home 

There  is  no  shirking  it :  if  marriage  cannot  be  made  to 
produce  something  better  than  we  are,  marriage  will  have 
to  go,  or  else  the  nation  will  have  to  go.  It  is  no  use 
talking  of  honor,  virtue,  purity,  and  wholesome,  sweet, 
clean,  English  home  lives  when  what  is  meant  is  simply 
the  habits  I  have  described.  The  flat  fact  is  that  English 
home  life  to-day  is  neither  honorable,  virtuous,  whole- 
some, sweet,  clean,  nor  in  any  creditable  way  distinct- 
ively English.     It  is  in  many  respects  conspicuously  the 


182  Getting  Married 

reverse;  and  the  result  of  withdrawing  children  from  it 
completely  at  an  early  age,  and  sending  them  to  a  public 
school  and  then  to  a  university,  does,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  these  institutions  are  class  warped  and  in  some  re- 
spects quite  abominably  corrupt,  produce  sociabk-r  men. 
Women,  too,  arc  improved  by  the  escape  from  home  pro- 
vided by  women's  colleges;  but  as  very  few  of  them  are 
fortunate  enough  to  enjoy  this  advantage,  most  women 
are  so  thoroughly  home-bred  as  to  be  unfit  for  human  so- 
ciety. So  little  is  expected  of  them  that  in  Sheridan's 
School  for  Scandal  we  hardly  notice  that  the  heroine  is 
a  female  cad,  as  detestable  and  dishonorable  in  her  re- 
pentance as  she  is  vulgar  and  silly  in  he^  naughtiness. 
It  was  left  to  an  abnormal  critic  like  George  (iissing  to 
point  out  the  glaring  fr.ct  that  in  the  remarkable  set  of 
life  studies  of  XlXth  century  women  to  be  found  in  the 
novels  of  Dickens,  the  most  convincingly  real  ones  are 
either  vilely  unamiable  or  comically  contemptible;  whilst 
his  attempts  to  manufacture  admirable  heroines  by  ideali- 
zations of  home-bred  womanhood  are  not  only  absurd  but 
not  even  pleasantly  absurd :  one  has  no  patience  with 
them. 

As  all  this  is  corrigible  by  reducing  home  life  and 
domestic  sentiment  to  something  like  reasonable  propor- 
tions in  the  life  of  the  individual,  the  danger  of  it  does 
not  lie  in  human  nature.  Home  life  as  we  understand  it 
is  no  more  natural  to  us  than  a  cage  is  natural  to  a  cocka- 
too. Its  grave  danger  to  the  nation  lies  in  its  narrow 
views,  its  unnaturally  sustained  and  spitefully  jealous 
concupiscences,  its  petty  tyrannies,  its  false  social  pre- 
tences, its  endless  grudges  and  squabbles,  its  sacrifice  of 
the  boy's  future  by  setting  him  to  earn  money  to  help 
the  family  when  he  should  be  in  training  for  his  adult 
life  (remember  the  boy  Dickens  and  the  blacking  fac- 
tory), and  of  the  girl's  chances  by  making  her  a  slave 
to  sick  or  selfish  parents,  its  unnatural  packing  into  little 


Preface  133 

brick  boxes  of  little  parcels  of  humanity  of  ill-assorted 
ages,  with  the  old  scoldiii":  or  beating  the  young  for  be- 
having like  3'oung  people,  and  the  young  hating  and 
thwarting  the  old  for  behaving  like  old  people,  and  all 
the  other  ills,  mentionable  and  unmentionable,  that  arise 
from  excessi^'e  segregation.  It  sets  these  evils  up  as 
benefits  and  blessings  representing  the  highest  attainable 
degree  of  honor  and  virtue,  whilst  any  criticism  of  or 
revolt  against  them  is  savagely  persecuted  as  the  ex- 
tremity of  vice.  The  revolt,  driven  under  ground  and 
exacerbated,  produces  debauchery  veiled  by  hypocrisy,  an 
overwhelming  demand  for  licentious  theatrical  entertain- 
ments which  no  censorship  can  stem,  and,  worst  of  all,  a 
confusion  of  virtue  with  the  mere  morality  that  steals  its 
name  until  the  real  thing  is  loatlied  because  the  imposture 
is  loathsome.  Literary  traditions  spring  up  in  which  the 
libertine  and  profligate — Tom  Jones  and  Charles  Surface 
are  the  heroes,  and  decorous,  law-abiding  persons — Blifil 
and  Joseph  Surface — are  the  villains  and  butts.  People 
like  to  believe  that  Nell  Gwynne  has  every  amiable  qual- 
ity and  the  Bishop's  wife  every  odious  one.  Poor  Mr. 
Pecksniff,  who  is  generally  no  worse  than  a  humbus:  with 
a  turn  for  pompous  talking,  is  represented  as  a  criminal 
instead  of  as  a  very  typical  English  paterfamilias  keep- 
ing a  roof  over  the  head  of  himself  and  his  daughters  by 
inducing  people  to  pay  him  more  for  his  services  than 
they  are  worth.  In  the  extreme  instances  of  reaction 
against  convention,  female  murderers  get  sheaves  of 
olTers  of  marriage;  and  wlien  Nature  throws  up  that  rare 
phenomenon,  an  unscrupulous  libertine,  his  success  among 
"  well  brought-up  "  girls  is  so  easy,  and  the  devotion  he 
inspires  so  extravagant,  that  it  is  impossible  not  to  see 
that  the  revolt  against  conventional  respectability  has 
transfigured  a  commonplace  rascal  into  a  sort  of  An- 
archist Saviour.  As  to  the  respectable  voluptuary,  who 
joins  Omar  Khayyam  clubs  and  vibrates  to  Swinburne's 


134  Getting  Married 

invocation   of   Dolores   to   "  come  down   and  redeem   us 
from  virtue/'  he  is  to  be  found  in  every  suburb. 


Too  :Much  of  a  Good  Thing 

We  must  be  reasonable  in  our  domestic  ideals.  I  do 
not  think  tlint  life  at  a  public  school  is  altogether  good 
for  a  boy  any  more  than  barrack  life  is  altogether  good 
for  a  soldier.  But  neither  is  home  life  altogether  good. 
Such  good  as  it  does,  I  should  say,  is  due  to  its  freedom 
from  the  very  atmosphere  it  professes  to  supply.  That 
atmosphere  is  usually  described  as  an  atmosphere  of  love; 
and  this  definition  should  be  sufficient  to  ptit  any  sane 
person  on  guard  against  it.  The  people  wlio  talk  and 
write  as  if  the  highest  attainable  state  is  tliat  of  a  family 
stewing  in  love  continuously  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
can  hardly  have  given  five  minutes  serious  consideration 
to  so  outrageous  a  proposition.  They  cannot  have  even 
made  up  their  minds  as  to  what  they  mean  by  love;  for 
when  they  exjiatiate  on  their  thesis  they  are  sometimes 
talking  about  kindness,  and  sometimes  about  mere  appe- 
tite. In  either  sense  they  are  equally  far  from  the  reali- 
ties of  life.  No  healthy  man  or  animal  is  occupied  with 
love  in  any  sense  for  more  than  a  very  small  fraction  in- 
deed of  the  time  he  devotes  to  business  and  to  recreations 
wholly  unconnected  with  love.  A  wife  entirely  preoccu- 
pied witli  her  affection  for  her  husband,  a  mother  entirely 
preoccupied  with  her  affection  for  her  children,  may  be 
all  very  well  in  a  book  (for  people  who  like  that  kind  of 
book)  ;  but  in  actual  life  she  is  a  nuisance.  Husbands 
may  escape  from  her  when  their  business  compels  them 
to  be  away  from  home  all  day;  but  young  children  may 
be,  and  quite  often  are,  killed  by  her  cuddling  and  cod- 
dling and  doctoring  and  preaching:  above  all,  by  her 
continuous  attempts  to  excite  precocious  sentimentality. 


Preface  135 

a  practice  as  objectionable,  and  possibly  as  mischievous, 
as  the  worst  tricks  of  the  worst  nursemaids. 


Large  and  Small  Families 

In  most  healthy  families  there  is  a  revolt  against  this 
tendency.  The  exchanging  of  presents  on  birthdays  and 
the  like  is  barred  by  general  consent,  and  the  relations 
of  tlie  parties  are  placed  by  express  treaty  on  an  unsen- 
timental footing. 

Unfortunately  this  mitigation  of  family  sentimentality 
is  much  more  characteristic  of  large  families  than  small 
ones.  It  used  to  be  said  that  members  of  large  families 
get  on  in  the  world ;  and  it  is  certainly  true  that  for  pur- 
poses of  social  training  a  household  of  twenty  surpasses 
a  household  of  five  as  an  Oxford  College  surpasses  an 
eight-roomed  house  in  a  cheap  street.  Ten  children,  with 
the  necessary  adults,  make  a  community  in  which  an  ex- 
cess of  sentimentality  is  impossible.  Two  children  make 
a  doll's  house,  in  whicli  both  parents  and  children  become 
morbid  if  they  keep  to  themselves.  What  is  more,  when 
large  families  were  the  fashion,  they  were  organized  as 
tyrannies  much  more  than  as  "  atmospheres  of  love." 
Francis  Place  tells  us  that  he  kept  out  of  his  father's 
way  because  his  father  never  passed  a  child  within  his 
reach  without  striking  it;  and  though  the  case  was  an 
extreme  one,  it  was  an  extreme  that  illustrated  a  ten- 
dency. Sir  Walter  Scott's  father,  when  his  son  incau- 
tiously expressed  some  relish  for  his  porridge,  dashed  a 
handful  of  salt  into  it  with  an  instinctive  sense  that  it 
was  his  duty  as  a  father  to  prevent  his  son  enjoying  him- 
self. Ruskin's  mother  gratified  the  sensual  side  of  her 
maternal  passion,  not  by  cuddling  her  son,  but  by  whip- 
ping him  when  he  fell  downstairs  or  was  slack  in  learn- 
ing the  Bible  off  by  heart;  and  this  grotesque  safety- 
valve  for  voluptuousness,  mischievous  as  it  was  in  many 


136  Getting  Married 

•ways,  had  at  least  the  advantage  that  the  child  did  not 
enjoy  it  and  was  not  debauched  by  it,  as  he  would  have 
been  by  transports  of  sentimentality. 

But  nowadays  we  cannot  depend  on  these  safeguards, 
such  as  they  were.  Wc  no  longer  have  large  families:  all 
the  families  are  too  small  to  give  the  children  the  neces- 
sary social  training.  The  Roman  father  is  out  of  fash- 
ion ;  and  tlie  whip  and  the  cane  are  becoming  discredited, 
not  so  much  by  the  old  arguments  against  corporal  pun- 
ishment (sound  as  these  were)  as  by  the  gradual  wearing 
away  of  the  veil  from  the  fact  that  flogging  is  a  form  of 
debauchery.  The  advocate  of  flogging  as  a  punishment 
is  now  exposed  to  very  disagreeable  suspicions;  and  ever 
since  Rousseau  rose  to  the  effort  of  making  a  certain  very 
ridiculous  confession  on  the  subject,  there  has  been  a 
growing  perception  that  child  whipping,  even  for  the 
children  tlicmselves,  is  not  always  the  innocent  and  high- 
minded  practice  it  professes  to  be.  At  all  events  there 
is  no  getting  away  from  the  facts  that  families  are 
smaller  than  they  used  to  be,  and  that  passions  which 
formerly  took  elYcct  in  tyranny  have  been  largely  di- 
verted into  sentimentality.  /Vnd  though  a  little  sentimen- 
tality may  be  a  very  good  thing,  chronic  sentimentality 
is  a  horror,  more  dangerous,  because  more  possible,  than 
the  erotomania  which  we  all  condemn  when  we  are  not 
thoughtlessly  glorifying  it  as  the  ideal  married  state. 

The  Gospel  of  Laodicea 

Let  us  try  to  get  at  the  root  error  of  these  false  domes- 
tice  doctrines.  Why  was  it  that  the  late  Samuel  Butler, 
with  a  conviction  that  increased  with  his  experience  of 
life,  preached  the  gospel  of  Laodicea,  urging  people  to  be 
temperate  in  what  they  called  goodness  as  in  everything 
else?  ^Vhy  is  it  that  I,  when  I  hear  some  well-meaning 
person  exhort  young  people  to  make  it  a  rule  to  do  at 


Preface  137 

least  one  kind  action  every  day,  feel  very  much  as  I 
should  if  I  heard  them  persuade  children  to  get  drmik  at 
least  once  every  day?  Apart  from  the  initial  absurdity 
of  accepting  as  permanent  a  state  of  things  in  which 
there  would  be  in  this  country  misery  enough  to  supply 
occasion  for  several  thousand  million  kind  actions  per 
annum,  the  effect  on  the  character  of  the  doers  of  the 
actions  would  be  so  appalling,  that  one  month  of  any 
serious  attempt  to  carry  out  such  counsels  would  proba- 
bly bring  about  more  stringent  legislation  against  actions 
going  bcA'Ond  the  strict  letter  of  the  law  in  the  way  of 
kindness  than  we  have  now  against  excess  in  the  opposite 
direction. 

There  is  no  more  dangerous  mistake  than  the  mistake 
of  supposing  that  we  cannot  have  too  much  of  a  good 
thing.  The  truth  is,  an  immoderately  good  man  is  very 
much  more  dangerous  than  an  immoderately  bad  man: 
that  is  why  Savonarola  was  burnt  and  John  of  Leyden 
torn  to  pieces  with  red-hot  pincers  whilst  multitudes  of 
unredeemed  rascals  were  being  let  off  with  clipped  cars, 
burnt  palms,  a  flogging,  or  a  few  years  in  the  galleys. 
That  is  why  Christianity  never  got  any  grip  of  the  world 
until  it  virtually  reduced  its  claims  on  the  ordinary  citi- 
zen's attention  to  a  couple  of  hours  every  seventh  day, 
and  let  him  alone  on  week-days.  If  the  fanatics  who 
are  preoccupied  day  in  and  day  out  with  their  salvation 
were  healthy,  virtuous,  and  wise,  the  Laodiceanism  of  the 
ordinary  man  might  be  regarded  as  a  deplorable  short- 
coming; but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  no  more  frightful  mis- 
fortune could  threaten  us  than  a  general  spread  of  fa- 
naticism. What  people  call  goodness  has  to  be  kept  in 
check  just  as  carefully  as  what  they  call  badness;  for 
the  himian  constitution  will  not  stand  very  much  of  either 
without  serious  psychological  mischief,  ending  in  insanity 
or  crime.  The  fact  that  the  insanity  may  be  privileged, 
as  Savonarola's  was  up  to  the  point  of  wrecking  the  social 


138  Getting  Married 

life  of  Florence,  does  not  alter  the  case.  We  always 
hesitate  to  treat  a  dangerously  good  man  as  a  lunatic  be- 
cause he  may  turn  out  to  be  a  prophet  in  the  true  sense: 
that  is,  a  man  of  exceptional  sanity  who  is  in  the  right 
when  we  are  in  the  wrong.  However  necessary  it  may 
have  been  to  get  rid  of  Savonarola,  it  was  foolish  to  poi- 
son Socrates  and  burn  St.  Joan  of  Arc.  But  it  is  none 
the  less  necessary  to  take  a  firm  stand  against  the  mon- 
strous proposition  that  because  certain  attitudes  and  sen- 
timents may  be  heroic  and  admirable  at  some  momentous 
crisis,  they  should  or  can  be  maintained  at  the  same  pitch 
continuously  through  life.  A  life  spent  in  prayer  and 
almsgiving  is  really  as  insane  as  a  life  spent  in  cursing 
and  picking  pockets :  the  effect  of  everybody  doing  it 
would  be  equally  disastrous.  Tlie  superstitious  tolerance 
so  long  accorded  to  monks  and  nuns  is  inevitably  giving 
way  to  a  very  general  and  very  natural  practice  of  con- 
fiscating their  retreats  and  expelling  them  from  their 
country,  with  the  result  that  they  come  to  England  and 
Ireland,  where  they  are  partly  unnoticed  and  partly  en- 
couraged because  they  conduct  technical  schools  and 
teach  our  girls  softer  speech  and  gentler  manners  than 
our  comparatively  ruffianly  elementary  teachers.  But 
they  are  still  full  of  the  notion  that  because  it  is  possible 
for  men  to  attain  the  summit  of  Mont  Blanc  and  stay 
there  for  an  hour,  it  is  possible  for  them  to  I've  there. 
Children  are  punished  and  scolded  for  not  living  there; 
and  adults  take  serious  offence  if  it  is  not  assumed  that 
they  live  there. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  ethical  strain  is  just  as  bad  for 
us  as  physical  strain.  It  is  desirable  that  the  normal 
pitch  of  conduct  at  which  men  are  not  conscious  of  being 
particularly  virtuous,  although  they  feel  mean  when  they 
fall  below  it,  should  be  raised  as  high  as  possible ;  but  it 
is  not  desirable  that  they  should  attempt  to  live  above  this 
pitch  any  more  than  that  they  should  habitually  walk  at 


Preface  139 

the  rate  of  five  miles  an  hour  or  carry  a  hundredweight 
continually  on  their  backs.  Their  normal  condition 
should  be  in  nowise  difficult  or  remarkable ;  and  it  is  a 
perfectly  sound  instinct  that  leads  us  to  mistrust  the 
good  man  as  much  as  the  bad  man,  and  to  object  to  the 
clergyman  who  is  pious  extra-professionally  as  much  as 
to  the  professional  pugilist  who  is  quarrelsome  and  vio- 
lent in  private  life.  We  do  not  want  good  men  and  bad 
men  any  more  than  we  want  giants  and  dwarfs.  What 
we  do  want  is  a  high  quality  for  our  normal :  that  is,  peo- 
ple who  can  be  mucli  better  than  what  we  now  call  re- 
spectable without  self-sacrifice.  Conscious  goodness,  like 
conscious  muscular  effort,  may  be  of  use  in  emergencies; 
but  for  everyday  national  use  it  is  negligible ;  and  its 
effect  on  the  character  of  the  individual  may  easily  be 
disastrous. 

For  Better  For  Worse 

It  would  be  hard  to  find  any  document  in  practical 
daily  use  in  which  these  obvious  truths  seem  so  stupidly 
overlooked  as  they  are  in  the  marriage  service.  As  we 
have  seen,  the  stupidity  is  only  apparent :  the  service  was 
really  only  an  honest  attempt  to  make  the  best  of  a  com- 
mercial contract  of  property  and  slavery  by  subjecting 
it  to  some  religious  restraint  and  elevating  it  by  some 
touch  of  poetry.  But  the  actual  result  is  that  when 
two  people  are  under  the  influence  of  the  most  violent, 
most  insane,  most  delusive,  and  most  transient  of  pas- 
sions, they  are  required  to  swear  that  they  will  remain 
in  that  excited,  abnormal,  and  exhausting  condition  con- 
tinuously until  death  do  them  part.  And  though  of 
course  nobody  expects  them  to  do  anything  so  impossible 
and  so  unwholesome,  yet  the  law  that  regulates  their  re- 
lations, and  the  public  opinion  that  regulates  that  law, 
is  actually  founded  on  the  assumption  that  the  marriage 


140  Getting  Married 

vow  is  not  only  feasible  but  beautiful  and  holy,  and  that 
if  they  are  false  to  it,  they  deserve  no  sympathy  and  no 
relief.  If  all  married  people  re-.lly  lived  together,  no 
doubt  the  mere  foree  of  facts  would  make  an  end  to  this 
inhuman  nonsense  in  a  month,  if  not  sooner;  but  it  is 
very  seldom  brought  to  that  test.  The  typical  British 
husband  sees  much  less  of  his  wife  than  he  does  of  his 
business  partner,  his  fellow  clerk,  or  whot-ver  works  be- 
side him  day  by  day.  Man  and  wife  do  not  as  a  rule, 
live  together:  they  only  breakfast  together,  dine  together, 
and  sleep  in  the  same  room.  In  most  cases  the  woman 
knows  nothing  of  the  man's  working  life  aod  he  knows 
nothing  of  her  working  life  (he  calls  it  her  home  life). 
It  is  remarkable  that  the  very  people  who  romance  most 
absurdly  about  the  closeness  and  sacredncss  of  the  mar- 
riage tie  are  also  those  who  are  most  convinced  that  the 
man's  sjihere  and  the  woman's  sphere  are  so  entirely 
separate  that  only  in  their  leisure  moments  can  they  ever 
be  together.  A  man  as  intimate  with  his  own  wife  as  a 
magistrate  is  with  his  clerk,  or  a  Prime  Minister  with  the 
leader  of  the  Opposition,  is  a  man  in  ten  thousand.  The 
majority  of  married  couples  never  get  to  know  one  an- 
other at  all :  they  only  get  accustomed  to  having  the  same 
house,  the  same  children,  and  the  same  income,  which  is 
quite  a  different  matter.  The  comparatively  few  men 
who  work  at  home — writers,  artists,  and  to  some  extent 
clergymen — have  to  effect  some  sort  of  segregation  with- 
in the  house  or  else  run  a  heavy  risk  of  overstraining 
their  domestic  relations.  When  the  pair  is  so  poor  that 
it  can  afford  only  a  single  room,  the  strain  is  intolerable: 
violent  quarrelling  is  the  result.  Very  few  couples  can 
live  in  a  single-roomed  tenement  without  exchanging 
blows  quite  frequently.  In  the  leisured  classes  there  is 
often  no  real  family  life  at  all.  The  boys  are  at  a  public 
school;  the  girls  are  in  the  schoolroom  in  charge  of  a 
governess ;  the  husband  is  at  his  club  or  in  a  set  which  is 


Preface  l^l 

not  his  wife's;  and  the  institution  of  marriage  enjoys  the 
credit  of  a  domestic  peace  which  is  liardly  more  intimate 
than  tlie  rehations  of  prisoners  in  the  same  gaol  or  guests 
at  the  same  garden  party.  Taking  these  two  cases  of 
the  single  room  and  the  unearned  income  as  the  extremes, 
we  might  perhaps  locate  at  a  guess  whereah(mt  on  the 
scale  between  them  any  particular  family  stands.  But  it 
is  clear  enough  that  the  one-roomed  end,  though  its  con- 
ditions enable  the  marriage  vow  to  be  carried  out  v/ith  the 
utmost  attainable  exactitude,  is  far  less  endurable  in 
practice,  and  far  more  mischievous  in  its  effect  on  the 
parties  concerned,  and  through  them  on  the  community, 
than  the  other  end.  Thus  we  see  that  the  revolt  against 
marriage  is  by  no  means  only  a  revolt  against  its  sordid- 
ness  as  a  survival  of  sex  slavery.  It  may  even  plausibly 
be  maintained  that  tliis  is  precisely  the  part  of  it  that 
works  most  smoothly  in  practice.  The  revolt  is  also 
against  its  sentimentality,  its  romance,  its  Amorism,  even 
against  its  enervating  happiness. 

Wanted:  an  Immoral  Statesman 

We  now  see  that  the  statesman  who  undertakes  to  deal 
with  marriage  will  have  to  face  an  amazingly  complicated 
public  opinion.  In  fact,  he  will  have  to  leave  opinion 
as  far  as  possible  out  of  the  question,  and  deal  with  hu- 
man nature  instead.  For  even  if  there  could  be  any  real 
public  opinion  in  a  society  like  ours,  which  is  a  mere  mob 
of  classes,  each  with  its  own  habits  and  prejudices,  it 
woidd  be  at  best  a  jumble  of  superstitions  and  interests, 
taboos  and  hypocrisies,  which  could  not  be  reconciled  in 
any  coherent  enactment.  It  would  probably  proclaim 
passionately  that  it  does  not  matter  in  the  least  what  sort 
of  children  we  have,  or  how  few  or  how  many,  provided 
the  children  are  legitimate.  Also  that  it  does  not  matter 
in  the  least  what  sort  of  adults  we  have,  provided  they 


142  Getting  Married 

are  married.  No  statesman  worth  the  name  can  possibly 
act  on  these  views.  He  is  bound  to  prefer  one  healthy 
illegitimate  child  to  ten  rickety  legitimate  ones,  and  one 
riuTfjctic  and  capable  unmarried  coujile  to  a  dozen  infe- 
rior apatlutic  husbands  and  wives.  If  it  could  be  proved 
that  illicit  unions  ))roduce  three  children  each  and  mar- 
riages only  one  and  a  half,  he  would  be  bound  to  encour- 
age illicit  unions  and  discourage  and  even  penalize  mar- 
riage. The  common  notion  that  the  existing  forms  of 
marriage  are  not  political  contrivances,  but  sacred  ethical 
obligations  to  which  everything,  even  the  very  existence 
of  the  human  race,  must  be  sacrificed  if  necessary  (and 
this  is  what  the  vulgar  morality  we  mostly  profess  on  the 
subject  comes  to)  is  one  on  which  no  sane  Government 
could  act  for  a  moment;  and  yet  it  influences,  or  is  be- 
lieved to  influence,  so  many  votes,  that  no  Government 
will  touch  the  marriage  question  if  it  can  possibly  help 
it,  even  when  there  is  a  demand  for  the  extension  of  mar- 
riage, as  in  the  case  of  the  recent  long-delayed  Act  legal- 
izing marriage  with  a  deceased  wife's  sister.  When  a 
reform  in  the  other  direction  is  needed  (for  example,  an 
extension  of  divorce),  not  even  the  existence  of  the  most 
unbearable  hardships  will  induce  our  statesmen  to  move 
so  long  as  the  victims  submit  sheepishly,  though  when 
they  take  the  remedy  into  their  own  hands  an  inquiry  is 
soon  begun.  But  what  is  now  making  some  action  in  the 
matter  imi)erative  is  neither  the  sufferings  of  those  who 
are  tied  for  life  to  criminals,  drunkards,  physically  un- 
sound and  dangerous  mates,  and  worthless  and  unamiable 
people  generally,  nor  the  immorality  of  the  couples  con- 
demned to  celibacy  by  separation  orders  which  do  not 
annul  their  marriages,  but  the  fall  in  the  birth  rate. 
Public  opinion  will  not  help  us  out  of  this  difficulty:  on 
the  contrary,  it  will,  if  it  be  allowed,  punish  anybody 
who  mentions  it.  When  Zola  tried  to  repopulate  France 
by  writing  a  novel  in  praise  of  parentage,  the  only  com- 


Preface  143 

ment  made  licrc  was  that  the  book  could  not  possiblv  be 
translated  into  English,  as  its  subject  was  too  improper. 

The  IJmits  of  Democracy 

Now  if  England  had  been  governed  in  the  past  by 
statesmen  willing  to  be  ruled  by  such  public  opinion  as 
that,  she  would  have  been  wiped  off  the  jjolitical  map 
long  ago.  Tlie  modern  notion  that  democracy  means 
governing  a  country  according  to  the  ignorance  of  its 
majorities  is  never  more  disastrous  than  when  there  is 
some  question  of  sexual  morals  to  be  dealt  witli.  The 
business  of  a  democratic  statesman  is  not,  as  some  of  us 
seem  to  think,  to  convince  the  voters  that  he  knows  no 
better  than  they  as  to  the  methods  of  attaining  their  com- 
mon ends,  but  on  the  contrary  to  convince  tluni  that  he 
knows  much  better  than  they  do,  and  therefore  differs 
from  them  on  every  possible  question  of  method.  The 
voter's  duty  is  to  take  care  that  the  Government  consists 
of  men  whom  he  can  trust  to  devize  or  support  institu- 
tions making  for  the  common  M'clfare.  This  is  highly 
skilled  work ;  and  to  be  governed  by  people  who  set  about 
it  as  the  man  in  the  street  would  set  about  it  is  to  make 
straight  for  "  red  ruin  and  the  breaking  up  of  laws." 
Voltaire  said  that  Mr  Everybody  is  wiser  than  anybody; 
and  whether  he  is  or  not,  it  is  his  will  that  must  prevail; 
but  the  will  and  the  way  are  two  very  different  things. 
For  example,  it  is  the  will  of  the  people  on  a  hot  day 
that  the  means  of  relief  from  the  effects  of  the  heat 
should  be  within  the  reach  of  everybody.  Nothing  could 
be  more  innocent,  more  hygienic,  more  important  to  the 
social  welfare.  But  the  way  of  the  people  on  such  occa- 
sions is  mostly  to  drink  large  quantities  of  beer,  or, 
among  the  more  luxurious  classes,  iced  claret  cup,  lemon 
squashes,  and  the  like.  To  take  a  moral  illustration,  the 
■svill  to  suppress  misconduct  and  secure  efficiency  in  work 


14'4  Getting  ^Married 

is  general  and  salutary;  but  the  notion  that  the  best  and 
only  effective  way  is  by  complaining,  scolding,  punish- 
ing, and  revenging  is  equally  general.  Wiicn  Mrs 
Squeers  opened  an  abscess  on  her  pujiil's  liead  with  an 
inky  penknife,  her  object  was  entirely  laudable:  her 
heart  was  in  the  right  ]ilace:  a  statesman  interfering 
with  her  on  the  ground  that  he  did  not  want  the  boy 
cured  would  have  deserved  imjjeachmcnt  for  gross  tyr- 
anny. But  a  statesman  tolerating  amateur  surgical  prac- 
tice with  inky  penknives  in  school  would  be  a  very  bad 
Minister  of  Education.  It  is  on  the  question  of  method 
that  your  expert  conies  in ;  and  though  I  am  democrat 
enough  to  insist  that  he  must  first  convince. a  representa- 
tive body  of  amateurs  that  his  way  is  the  right  way  and 
Mrs  Squeers's  way  the  wrong  way,  yet  I  ver\'  strongly 
object  to  any  tendency  to  flatter  Mrs  Squeers  into  the 
belief  that  her  way  is  in  the  least  likely  to  be  the  right 
way,  or  that  any  other  test  is  to  be  applied  to  it  except 
the  test  of  its  effect  on  human  welfare. 


The  Science  and  Art  of  Politics 

Political  Science  means  nothing  else  than  the  devizing 
of  the  best  ways  of  fulfilling  the  will  of  the  world ;  and, 
I  repeat,  it  is  skilled  work.  Once  the  way  is  discovered, 
the  methods  laid  down,  and  tlie  machinery  provided,  tlie 
work  of  the  statesman  is  done,  and  that  of  the  official 
I  begins.  To  illustrate,  there  is  no  need  for  the  police 
'  officer  who  governs  the  street  traffic  to  be  or  to  know  any 
better  than  the  people  who  obey  the  wave  of  his  hand. 
All  concerted  action  involves  subordination  and  the  ap- 
pointment of  directors  at  whose  signal  the  others  will  acL 
There  is  no  more  need  for  them  to  be  superior  to  the 
rest  than  for  the  keystone  of  an  arch  to  be  of  harder 
stone  than  the  coping.  But  when  it  comes  to  devizing 
the  directions  which  arc  to  be  obeyed:  that  is,  to  making 


Preface  145 

new  institutions  and  scraping  old  ones,  then  you  need 
aristocracy  in  the  sense  of  government  by  the  best.  A 
military  state  organized  so  as  to  carry  out  exactly  the 
impulses  of  .le  average  soldier  would  not  last  a  year. 
The  result  of  trying  to  make  the  Church  of  England  re- 
flect the  notions  of  the  average  churchgoer  has  reduced 
it  to  a  cipher  excejit  for  the  purposes  of  a  petulantly 
irreligious  social  and  political  club.  Democracy  as  to 
the  thing  to  be  done  may  be  inevitable  (hence  the  vital 
need  for  a  democracy  of  supermen)  ;  but  democracy  as 
to  the  way  to  do  it  is  like  letting  the  passengers  drive  the 
train:  it  can  only  end  in  collision  and  wreck.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  act,  we  obtain  reforms  (such  as  they  are),  not  by 
allowing  the  electorate  to  draft  statutes,  but  by  persuad- 
ing it  that  a  certain  minister  and  his  cabinet  are  gifted 
Avith  sufficient  political  sagacity  to  find  out  how  to  pro- 
duce the  desired  result.  And  the  usual  penalty  of  taking 
advantage  of  this  power  to  reform  our  institutions  is 
defeat  by  a  vehement  "  swing  of  the  pendulum  "  at  the 
next  election.  Therein  lies  the  peril  and  the  glory  of 
democratic  statesmanship.  A  statesman  who  confines 
himself  to  popular  legislation — or,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
a  playwright  who  confines  himself  to  popular  plays — is 
like  a  blind  man's  dog  who  goes  wlierever  the  blind  man 
pulls  him,  on  the  ground  that  both  of  them  want  to  go 
to  the  same  place. 

Why  Statesmen  Shirk  the  ^Marriage 

Question 

The  reform  of  marriage,  then,  will  be  a  very  splendid 
and  very  hazardous  adventure  for  the  Prime  Minister 
who  takes  it  in  hand.  He  will  be  posted  on  every  hoard- 
ing and  denovmced  in  every  Opposition  paper,  especially 
in  the  sporting  papers,  as  the  destroyer  of  the  home,  the 
family,  of  decency,  of  morality,  of  chastity  and  what 


146  Getting  Married 

not.  All  the  commonplaces  of  the  modern  antiSocialist 
Noodle's  Oration  will  be  hurled  at  him.  And  he  will 
have  to  proceed  without  the  slightest  concession  to  it, 
giving  the  noodles  nothing  but  their  due  in  the  assurance 
"  I  know  how  to  attain  our  ends  better  than  you,"  and 
staking  his  political  life  on  the  conviction  carried  by  that 
assurance,  which  conviction  will  depend  a  good  deal  on 
the  certainty  with  which  it  is  made,  which  again  c.in  be 
attained  only  by  studying  the  facts  of  marriage  and  un- 
derstanding the  needs  of  the  nation.  And,  after  all,  he 
•will  find  that  the  pious  commonplaces  on  which  he  and 
tiie  chctorate  are  agreed  conceal  an  utter  difference  in 
the  real  ends  in  view:  his  being  public,  far;siglited,  and 
impersonal,  and  those  of  multitudes  of  the  electorate 
narrow,  personal,  jealous,  and  corru])t.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances, it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the  mere  men- 
tion of  the  marriage  question  makes  a  British  Cabinet 
shiver  with  apprehension  and  hastily  pass  on  to  safer 
business.  Nevertheless  the  reform  of  marriage  cannot 
be  put  off  for  ever.  When  its  hour  comes,  what  are  the 
points  the  Cabinet  will  have  to  take  up? 

The  Question  of  Population 

First,  it  will  have  to  make  up  its  mind  as  to  how  many 
people  we  want  in  the  country.  If  we  want  less  than 
at  present,  we  must  ascertain  how  many  less;  and  if  we 
allow  the  reduction  to  lie  made  by  the  continued  opera- 
tion of  the  present  sterilization  of  marriage,  we  must 
settle  how  the  process  is  to  be  stopped  when  it  has  gone 
far  enough.  But  if  we  desire  to  maintain  the  population 
at  its  present  figure,  or  to  increase  it,  we  must  take  im- 
mediate steps  to  induce  people  of  moderate  means  to 
marry  earlier  and  to  have  more  children.  There  is  less 
urgency  in  the  case  of  the  very  poor  and  the  very  rich. 
They  breed  recklessly:  the  rich  because  they  can  afford 


Preface  147 

it^  and  the  poor  because  they  cannot  afford  the  precau- 
tions by  which  the  artisans  and  the  middle  classes  avoid 
big  families.  Nevertheless  the  population  declines,  be- 
cause the  high  birth  rate  of  the  very  poor  is  counterbal- 
anced by  a  huge  infantile-mortality  in  the  slums,  whilst 
the  very  rich  are  also  the  very  few,  and  are  becoming 
sterilized  by  the  spreading  revolt  of  their  women  against 
excessive  childbearing — sometimes  against  any  child- 
bearing. 

This  last  cause  is  important.  It  cannot  be  removed  by 
any  economic  readjustment.  If  every  family  were  pro- 
vided with  <£  10,000  a  year  tomorrow,  women  would  still 
refuse  more  and  more  to  continue  bearing  children  until 
they  are  exhausted  wliilst  numbers  of  others  are  bearing 
no  children  at  all.  Even  if  every  woman  bearing  and 
rearing  a  valuable  cliild  received  a  handsome  series  of 
paj'ments,  thereby  making  motherhood  a  real  profes- 
sion as  it  ought  to  be,  the  number  of  women  able  or  will- 
ing to  give  more  of  their  lives  to  gestation  and  nursing 
than  three  or  four  children  would  cost  them  might  not 
be  very  large  if  the  advance  in  social  organiz  ition  and 
conscience  indicated  by  such  payments  involved  also  the 
opening  up  of  other  means  of  livelihood  to  women.  And 
it  must  be  remembered  that  urban  civilization  itself,  in- 
sofar as  it  is  a  method  of  evolution  (and  when  it  is  not 
this,  it  is  simply  a  nuisance),  is  a  sterilizing  process  as 
far  as  numbers  go.  It  is  harder  to  keep  up  the  supply 
of  elephants  than  of  sparrows  and  rabbits;  and  for  the 
same  reason  it  will  be  harder  to  keep  up  the  supply  of 
highly  cultivated  men  and  women  than  it  now  is  of  agri- 
cultural laborers.  Bees  get  out  of  this  difficulty  by  a 
special  system  of  feeding  which  enables  a  queen  bee  to 
produce  4,000  eggs  a  day  whilst  the  other  females  lose 
their  sex  altogether  and  become  workers  supporting  the 
males  in  luxury  and  idleness  until  the  queen  has  found 
her  mate,  when  tlie  queen  kills  him  and  the  quondam 


148  Getting  Married 

females  kill  all  the  rest   (such  at  least  are  the  accounts 
given  by  romantic  naturalists  of  the  matter). 


The  Right  to  ^Motherhood 

This  system  certainly  shews  a  much  higher  develop- 
ment of  social  intelligence  than  our  marriage  system; 
but  if  it  were  physically  possible  to  introduce  it  into  hu- 
man society  it  would  be  wrecked  by  an  opposite  and  not 
less  important  revolt  of  women :  that  is,  the  revolt  against 
compulsory  barrenness.  In  this  two  classes  of  women 
are  concerned:  those  wlio.  though  they  have  no  desire  for 
the  presence  or  care  of  children,  nevertheless  feel  that 
motherhood  is  an  experience  necessary  to  their  comjilete 
jisychical  development  and  understanding  of  themselves 
and  others,  and  those  who,  though  unable  to  find  or  un- 
willing to  entertain  a  husband,  would  like  to  cccupy 
themselves  with  the  rearing  of  children.  My  own  ex- 
perience of  discussing  tltis  question  leads  me  to  believe 
that  the  one  point  on  wliich  all  women  are  in  furious 
secret  rebellion  against  the  existing  law  is  the  saddling 
of  the  right  to  a  child  with  the  obligation  to  become  the 
servant  of  a  man.  Adoption,  or  the  begging  or  buying 
or  stealing  of  another  woman's  child,  is  no  remedy:  it 
does  not  provide  the  supreme  experience  of  bearing  the 
child.  Xo  political  constitution  will  ever  succeed  or  de- 
serve to  succeed  unless  it  includes  the  recognition  of  an 
absolute  right  to  sexual  experience,  and  is  untainted  by 
tile  Pauline  or  romantic  view  of  such  experience  as  sin- 
ful in  itself.  And  since  this  experience  in  its  fullest 
serse  must  be  carried  in  the  case  of  women  to  the  point 
of  childbearing,  it  can  only  be  reconciled  with  the  accept- 
ance of  marriage  with  the  child's  father  by  legalizing 
polygyny,  because  there  are  more  adult  women  in  the 
country  "  than  men.  Now  though  polygyny  prevails 
throughout  the  greater  part  of  the  British  Empire,  and 


Preface  149 

is  as  practicable  here  as  in  India,  there  is  a  good  deal 
to  be  said  against  it,  and  still  more  to  be  felt.  However, 
let  us  put  our  feelings  aside  for  a  moment,  and  consider 
the  question  politically. 

Monogamy,  Polygyny,  and  Polyandry 

The  number  of  wives  permitted  to  a  single  husband  or 
of  husbands  to  a  single  wife  under  a  marriage  system,  is 
not  an  ctliieal  j)roblem :  it  depends  solely  on  the  propor- 
tion of  the  sexes  in  the  population.  If  in  consequence  of 
a  great  war  three-quarters  of  the  men  in  this  country 
were  killed,  it  would  be  absolutely  necessary  to  adopt 
the  Mohammedan  allowance  of  four  wives  to  each  man  in 
order  to  recruit  tlie  population.  The  fundamental  rea- 
son for  not  allowing  women  to  risk  their  lives  in  battle 
and  for  giving  them  the  first  chance  of  escape  in  all 
dangerous  emergencies:  in  short,  for  treating  their  lives 
as  more  valuable  than  male  lives,  is  not  in  the  least  a 
chivalrous  reason,  though  men  may  consent  to  it  under 
the  illusion  of  chivalry.  It  is  a  simple  matter  of  neces- 
sity; for  if  a  large  proportion  of  women  were  killed  or 
disabled,  no  possible  readjustment  of  our  marriage  law- 
could  avert  the  depopulation  and  consequent  political 
ruin  of  the  country,  because  a  woman  with  several  hus- 
bands bears  fewer  children  than  a  woman  with  one, 
whereas  a  man  can  produce  as  many  families  as  he  has 
wives.  The  natural  foundation  of  the  institution  of 
monogamy  is  not  any  inherent  viciousness  in  polygyny 
or  polyandry,  but  the  hard  fact  that  men  and  women  are 
born  in  about  equal  numbers.  Unfortunately,  we  kill  so 
many  of  our  male  children  in  infancy  that  we  are  left 
with  a  surplus  of  adult  women  which  is  sufficiently  large 
to  claim  attention,  and  yet  not  large  enough  to  enable 
every  man  to  have  two  wives.  Even  if  it  were,  we  should 
be  met  by  an  economic  difficulty.     A  Kaffir  is  rich  in  pro- 


150  Getting  INIarried 

portion  to  the  number  of  liis  wives,  because  the  women 
are  the  breadwinners.  But  in  our  civilization  women  are 
not  paid  for  their  social  work  in  the  bearing  and  rearing 
of  children  and  the  ordering  of  households ;  they  are 
quartered  on  the  wages  of  their  husbands.  At  least  four 
out  of  five  of  our  men  could  not  afford  two  wives  unless 
their  Avages  were  nearly  doubled.  Would  it  not  then  be 
well  to  try  unlimited  polygj'ny;  so  that  the  remaining 
fifth  could  have  as  many  wives  apiece  as  they  could 
afford?     Let  us  see  how  this  would  work. 


The  ^lale  Revolt  Against  Polygamy 

Experience  shews  that  women  do  not  object  to 
polygyny  when  it  is  customary:  on  the  contrary,  they  are 
its  most  ardent  supporters.  The  reason  is  obvious.  The 
question,  as  it  jjresents  itself  in  practice  to  a  woman,  is 
whether  it  is  better  to  have,  say,  a  whole  share  in  a  tenth- 
rate  man  or  a  tenth  share  in  a  first-rate  man.  Substitute 
the  word  Income  for  the  word  Man,  and  you  will  have 
the  question  as  it  presents  itself  economically  to  the  de- 
pendent woman.  The  woman  whose  instincts  are  ma- 
ternal, who  desires  superior  children  more  than  anything 
else,  never  hesitates.  She  would  take  a  thousandth 
share,  if  necessary,  in  a  husband  who  was  a  man  in  a 
thousand,  rather  than  have  some  comparatively  weedy 
weakling  all  to  herself.  It  is  the  comparatively  weedy 
weakling,  left  mateless  by  polygyny,  who  objects.  Thus, 
it  was  not  the  women  of  Salt  Lake  City  nor  even  of 
America  who  attacked  Mormon  polygyny.  It  was  the 
men.  And  very  naturally.  On  the  other  hand,  women 
object  to  polyandry,  because  polyandry  enables  the  best 
women  to  monopohze  all  the  men,  just  as  polygjTiy 
enables  the  best  men  to  monopolize  all  the  women.  That 
is  why  all  our  ordinary  men  and  women  are  unanimous 
in  defence  of  monogamy,  the  men  because  it  excludes 


Preface  151 

polygyny,  and  the  women  because  it  excludes  polyandry. 
The  women,  left  to  themselves,  would  tolerate  jiolygyny. 
The  men,  left  to  themselves,  would  tolerate  polyandry. 
But  polygyny  would  condemn  a  great  many  men,  and 
polyandry  a  great  many  women,  to  the  celibacy  of 
neglect.  Hence  the  resistance  any  attempt  to  establish 
unlimited  polygyny  always  provokes,  not  from  tlie  best 
people,  but  from  the  mediocrities  and  the  inferiors.  If 
we  could  get  rid  of  our  inferiors  and  screw  up  our  aver- 
age quality  until  mediocrity  ceased  to  be  a  reproach, 
thus  making  every  man  reasonably  eligible  as  a  father 
and  every  woman  reasonably  desirable  as  a  mother, 
polygyny  and  polyandry  would  immediately  fall  into 
sincere  disrepute,  because  monogamy  is  so  much  more 
convenient  and  economical  that  nobody  would  want  to 
share  a  husband  or  a  ^vife  if  he  (or  she)  could  liave  a 
sufficiently  good  one  all  to  himself  (or  herself).  Thus 
it  appears  that  it  is  the  scarcity  of  husbands  or  wives  of 
high  quality  that  leads  woman  to  polygyny  and  men  to 
polyandry,  and  that  if  this  scarcity  were  cured,  monog- 
amy, in  the  sense  of  having  only  one  husband  or  wife 
at  a  time  (facilities  for  changing  are  another  matter), 
would  be  found  satisfactory. 

Difference  between  Oriental  and 
Occidental  Polygjiiy 

It  may  now  be  asked  why  the  polygynist  nations  have 
not  gravitated  to  monogamy,  like  the  latter-day  saints  of 
Salt  Lake  City.  The  answer  is  not  far  to  seek:  their 
polygyny  is  limited.  By  the  Mohammedan  law  a  man 
cannot  marry  more  than  four  wives;  and  by  the  unwrit- 
ten law  of  necessity  no  man  can  keep  more  wives  than 
he  can  afford;  so  that  a  man  with  four  wives  must  be 
quite  as  exceptional  in  Asia  as  a  man  with  a  carriage- 
and-pair  or  a  motor  car  is  in  Europe,  where,  nevertheless. 


152  Getting  Married 

we  may  all  have  as  many  carriages  and  motors  as  we  can 
afford  to  pay  for.  Kulin  polygyny,  though  unlimited,  is 
not  really  a  popular  institution:  if  you  are  a  person  of 
high  caste  you  pay  another  person  of  very  august  caste 
indeed  to  make  your  daughter  momentarily  one  of  his 
sixty  or  seventy  momentiry  wives  for  the  sake  of  en- 
nobling your  grandchildren;  but  tliis  fashion  of  a  small 
and  intensely  snobbish  class  is  negligible  as  a  general 
precedent.  In  any  case,  men  and  women  in  the  East  do 
not  marry  anyone  they  fancy,  as  in  England  and  Amer- 
ica. Women  are  secluded  and  marriages  are  arranged. 
In  Salt  Lake  City  the  free  unsecluded  woman  could  see 
and  meet  the  ablest  man  of  the  communit};,  and  tempt 
him  to  make  her  his  tenth  wife  by  all  the  arts  peculiar 
to  women  in  English-speaking  countries.  No  eastern 
woman  can  do  anything  of  the  sort.  The  man  alone  has 
any  initiative;  but  he  has  no  access  to  the  woman;  be- 
sides, as  we  have  seen,  the  difficulty  created  by  male 
license  is  not  polygyny  but  polyandry,  which  is  not 
allowed. 

Consequently,  if  we  are  to  make  polygyny  a  success, 
we  must  limit  it.  If  we  have  two  women  to  every  one 
man,  we  must  allow  each  man  only  two  wives.  That  is 
simple;  but  unfortunately  our  own  actual  proportion  is, 
roughly,  something  like  1-j-^  woman  to  1  man.  Now  you 
cannot  enact  that  each  man  shall  be  allowed  1j\  wives, 
or  that  each  woman  who  cannot  get  a  husband  all  to 
herself  shall  divide  herself  between  eleven  already  mar- 
ried husbands.  Thus  there  is  no  way  out  for  us  through 
polygyny.  There  is  no  way  at  all  out  of  the  present 
system  of  condemning  the  superfluous  women  to  barren- 
ness, except  by  legitimizing  the  children  of  women  who 
are  not  married  to  the  fathers. 


Preface  153 

The  Old  Maid's  Right  to  Motherhood 

Now  the  right  to  bear  children  without  taking  a  hus- 
band could  not  be  confined  to  women  who  are  superfluous 
in  the  monogamic  reckoning.  There  is  the  practical  dif- 
ficulty that  although  in  our  population  there  are  about  a 
million  monogamically  superfluous  women,  yet  it  is  quite 
impossible  to  say  of  ajiy  given  unmarried  woman  that 
she  is  one  of  the  superfluous.  And  there  is  the  difficulty 
of  principle.  The  right  to  bear  a  child,  perhaps  the 
most  sacred  of  all  women's  rights,  is  not  one  that  should 
have  any  conditions  attached  to  it  except  in  the  interests 
of  race  welfare.  There  arc  many  women  of  admirable 
character,  strong,  capable,  independent,  who  dislike  the 
domestic  habits  of  men ;  ha%'e  no  natural  turn  for  moth- 
ering and  coddling  them;  and  find  the  concession  of  con- 
jugal rights  to  any  person  under  any  conditions  intol- 
erable by  their  self-respect.  Yet  the  general  sense  of 
the  community  recognizes  in  these  very  women  the  fittest 
people  to  have  charge  of  children,  and  trusts  them,  as 
schoolmistresses  and  matrons  of  institutions,  more  than 
women  of  any  other  type  when  it  is  possible  to  procure 
them  for  such  work.  Why  should  the  taking  of  a  hus- 
band be  imposed  on  these  women  as  the  price  of  their 
right  to  maternity?  I  am  quite  unable  to  answer  that 
question.  I  see  a  good  deal  of  first-rate  maternal  ability 
and  sagacity  spending  itself  on  bees  and  poultry  and  vil- 
lage schools  and  cottage  hospitals;  and  I  find  myself 
repeatedly  asking  myself  why  this  valuable  strain  in  the 
national  breed  should  be  sterilized.  Unfortunately,  the 
very  women  whom  we  should  tempt  to  become  mothers 
for  the  good  of  the  race  are  the  very  last  people  to  press 
their  services  on  their  coimtry  in  that  way.  Plato  long 
ago  pointed  out  the  importance  of  being  governed  by  men 
with  sufficient  sense  of  responsibility  and  comprehension 
of  public  duties  to  be  very  reluctant  to  undertake  the 


154  Getting  Married 

work  of  governing;  and  yet  we  have  taken  his  instruction 
so  little  to  heart  that  we  are  at  present  suffering  acutely 
from  government  by  gentlemen  who  will  stoop  to  all  the 
mean  shifts  of  electioneering  and  incur  all  its  heavy  ex- 
penses for  the  sake  of  a  seat  in  Parliament.  But  what 
our  sentimentalists  have  not  yet  been  told  is  that  exactly 
the  same  thing  applies  to  maternity  as  to  government. 
The  best  mothers  are  not  those  who  are  so  enslaved  by 
their  primitive  instincts  that  they  will  bear  children  no 
matter  how  hard  the  conditions  are,  but  precisely  those 
who  place  a  very  high  price  on  their  services,  and  are 
quite  prepared  to  become  old  maids  if  the  price  is  re- 
fused, and  even  to  feel  relieved  at  their  escape.  Our 
democratic  and  matrimonial  institutions  may  have  their 
merits :  at  all  events  tliey  are  mostly  reforms  of  some- 
thing worse;  but  they  put  a  j^rcniiuni  on  want  of  self- 
respect  in  certain  very  important  matters ;  and  the  con- 
sequence is  that  we  are  very  badly  governed  and  are,  on 
the  whole,  an  ugly,  mean,  ill-bred  race. 

Ibsen's  Chain  Stitch 

Let  us  not  forget,  however,  in  our  sympathy  for  the 
superfluous  women,  that  their  children  must  have  fathers 
as  well  as  mothers.  Who  are  the  fathers  to  be.''  All 
monogamists  and  married  women  will  reply  hastily : 
either  bachelors  or  widowers ;  and  this  solution  will  serve 
as  well  as  another;  for  it  would  be  hypocritical  to  pre- 
tend that  the  difficulty  is  a  practical  one.  None  the  less, 
tlie  monogamists,  after  due  reflection,  will  point  out  that 
if  there  are  widowers  enough  the  superfluous  women  are 
not  really  superfluous,  and  therefore  there  is  no  reason 
why  the  parties  should  not  marry  respectably  like  other 
people.  And  they  might  in  that  case  be  right  if  the  rea- 
sons were  purely  numerical:  that  is,  if  every  woman  were 
willing  to  take  a  husband  if  one  could  be  found  for  her. 


I 


Preface  155 

and  every  man  willing  to  take  a  wife  on  the  same  terms; 
also,  please  remember,  if  widows  would  remain  celibate 
to  give  the  unmarried  women  a  chance.  These  ifs  will 
not  work.  We  must  recognize  two  classes  of  old  maids: 
one,  the  really  superfluous  women,  and  the  other,  the 
women  who  refuse  to  accejit  maternity  on  the  (to  them) 
unbearable  condition  of  taking  a  husband.  From  both 
classes  may,  perhaps,  be  subtracted  for  the  present  the 
large  proportion  of  women  who  could  not  afford  the  ex- 
tra expense  of  one  or  more  children.  I  say  "  perhaps," 
because  it  is  by  no  means  sure  that  within  reasonable 
limits  mothers  do  not  make  a  better  fight  for  subsistence, 
and  have  not,  on  the  whole,  a  better  time  than  single 
women.  In  any  case,  we  have  two  distinct  cases  to  deal 
with:  the  superfluous  and  the  voluntary;  and  it  is  the 
voluntary  whose  grit  we  are  most  concerned  to  fertilize. 
But  here,  again,  we  cannot  put  our  finger  on  any  par- 
ticular case  and  pick  out  Miss  Robinson's  as  superfluous, 
and  Miss  Wilkinson's  as  voluntary.  Whether  we  legiti- 
mize the  child  of  the  unmarried  woman  as  a  duty  to  the 
superfluous  or  as  a  bribe  to  tlie  voluntary,  the  practical 
result  must  be  the  same:  to  wit,  that  the  condition  of 
marriage  now  attached  to  legitimate  parentage  will  be 
•withdrawn  from  all  women,  and  fertile  unions  outside 
marriage  recognized  by  society.  Now  clearly  the  conse- 
quences would  not  stop  there.  The  strong-minded  ladies 
who  are  resolved  to  be  mistresses  in  their  own  houses 
would  not  be  the  only  ones  to  take  advantage  of  the  new 
law.  Even  women  to  whom  a  home  without  a  man  in  it 
would  be  no  home  at  all,  and  who  fully  intended,  if  the 
man  turned  out  to  be  the  right  one,  to  live  with  him 
exactly  as  married  couples  live,  would,  if  they  were  pos- 
sessed of  independent  means,  have  every  inducement  to 
adopt  the  new  conditions  instead  of  the  old  ones.  Only 
the  women  whose  sole  means  of  livelihood  was  ^vifehood 
would  insist  on  marriage:  hence  a  tendency  would  set  in 


15G  Getting  Ivlarried 

to  make  marriage  more  and  more  one  of  the  customs  im- 
posed by  necessity  on  the  poor,  whilst  the  freer  form  of 
union,  rcguL-itcd,  no  doubt,  by  settlements  and  private 
contracts  of  various  kinds,  would  become  the  practice  of 
the  rich:  that  is,  would  btcouie  the  fashion.  At  which 
point  nothing  but  the  achievement  of  economic  inde- 
pendence by  women,  wliich  is  already  seen  clearly  ahead 
of  us,  would  be  needed  to  make  marriage  disappear  alto- 
gether, not  by  formal  abolition,  but  by  simple  disuse. 
The  private  contract  stage  of  this  })rocess  was  reached 
in  ancient  Rome.  The  only  jiractieable  alternative  to  it 
seems  to  be  such  an  extension  of  divorce  as  will  reduce 
the  risks  and  obligations  of  marriage  to  a  degree  at 
which  they  will  be  no  worse  than  those  of  the  altirn;itives 
to  marriage.  As  we  shall  see,  this  is  tlie  solution  to 
which  all  the  arguments  tend.  Meanwhile,  note  how 
much  reason  a  statesman  has  to  pause  before  meddling 
with  an  institution  which,  unendurable  as  its  drawbacks 
are,  threatens  to  come  to  pieces  in  all  directions  if  a  sin- 
gle thread  of  it  be  cut.  Ibsen's  similitude  of  the  ma- 
chine-made cliain  stitch,  which  unravels  the  whole  seam  at 
the  first  pull  when  a  single  stitch  is  ripped,  is  very  ap- 
plicable to  the  knot  of  marriage. 

Remoteness  of  the  Facts  from  the  Ideal 

But  before  we  allow  this  to  deter  us  from  touching  the 
sacred  fabric,  we  must  find  out  whether  it  is  not  already 
coming  to  pieces  in  all  directions  by  the  continuous  strain 
of  circumstances.  No  doubt,  if  it  were  all  that  it  pre- 
tends to  be,  and  human  nature  were  working  smoothly 
within  its  limits,  there  would  be  nothing  more  to  be  said: 
it  would  be  let  alone  as  it  always  is  let  alone  during  the 
cruder  stages  of  civilization.  But  the  moment  we  refer 
to  the  facts,  we  discover  that  the  ideal  matrimony  and 
domesticity  which  our  bigots  implore  us  to  preserve  as 


i 


Preface  157 

the  corner  stone  of  our  society  is  a  figment:  what  we 
have  really  got  is  something  very  different,  questionable 
at  its  best,  and  abominable  at  its  worst.  The  word  pure, 
so  commonly  applied  to  it  by  thoughtless  people,  is  ab- 
surd; because  if  they  do  not  mean  celibate  by  it,  they 
mean  nothing;  and  if  they  do  mean  celibate,  then  mar- 
riage is  legalized  impurity,  a  conclusion  which  is 
offensive  and  inhuman.  Marriage  as  a  fact  is  not  in 
the  least  like  marriage  as  an  ideal.  If  it  were,  the  sud- 
den changes  which  have  been  made  on  the  continent  from 
indissoluble  Roman  Catholic  marriage  to  marriage  that 
can  be  dissolved  by  a  box  on  the  ear  as  in  France,  by  an 
epithet  as  in  Germany,  or  simply  at  the  wish  of  both 
parties  as  in  Sweden,  not  to  mention  the  experiments 
made  by  some  of  the  American  States,  would  have  shaken 
society  to  its  foundations.  Yet  they  have  i)rodueed  so 
little  effect  that  Englishmen  open  their  eyes  in  surprise 
when  told  of  their  existence. 

Difficulty  of  Obtaining  Evidence 

As  to  what  actual  marriage  is,  one  would  like  evidence 
instead  of  guesses;  but  as  all  dej)artures  from  the  ideal 
are  regarded  as  disgraceful,  evidt-nce  cannot  be  obtained; 
for  when  the  whole  community  is  indicted,  nobody  will 
go  into  the  witness-box  for  the  prosecution.  Some 
guesses  we  can  make  with  some  confidence.  For  exam- 
ple, if  it  be  objected  to  any  change  that  our  bachelors 
and  widowers  would  no  longer  be  Galahads,  we  may 
without  extravagance  or  cynicism  reply  that  many  of 
them  are  not  Galahads  now,  and  that  the  only  change 
would  be  that  hypocrisy  would  no  longer  be  compulsory. 
Indeed,  this  can  hardly  be  called  guessing:  the  evidence 
is  in  the  streets.  But  when  we  attempt  to  find  out  the 
truth  about  our  marriages,  we  cannot  even  guess  with 
any  confidence.     Speaking  for  myself,  I  can  say  that  I 


158  Getting  Married 

know  the  inside  liistory  of  perlinps  luilf  a  dozen  mar- 
riages. Any  family  solicitor  knows  more  than  this ;  but 
even  a  family  solicitor,  however  large  his  practice,  knows 
nothing  of  tlie  million  households  which  have  no  solic- 
itors, and  which  nevertheless  make  marriage  what  it 
really  is.  And  all  he  can  say  comes  to  no  more  than  I 
can  say:  to  wit,  that  no  marriage  of  which  I  have  any 
knowledge  is  in  the  least  like  the  ideal  marriage.  I  do 
not  mean  that  it  is  worse:  I  mean  simjily  that  it  is  differ- 
ent. Also,  far  from  society  being  organized  in  a  defence 
of  its  ideal  so  jealous  and  implacable  that  the  least  step 
from  the  straight  path  means  exj)osure  and  ruin,  it  is 
almost  impossible  by  any  extravagance  of  misconduct  to 
jirovoke  society  to  relax  its  steady  pretence  of  blindness, 
unless  you  do  one  or  both  of  two  fatal  things.  One  is 
to  get  into  the  newspapers ;  and  the  other  is  to  confess. 
If  you  confess  misconduct  to  respectable  men  or  women, 
they  must  either  disown  you  or  become  virtually  your 
accomplices:  that  is  why  they  are  so  angry  with  you  for 
confessing.  If  you  get  into  the  jiapers,  the  pretence  of 
not  knowing  becomes  impossible.  But  it  is  hardly  too 
much  to  say  that  if  you  avoid  these  two  perils,  you  can 
do  anything  you  like,  as  far  as  your  neighbors  are  con- 
cerned. And  since  we  can  hardly  flatter  ourselves  that 
this  is  the  effect  of  charity,  it  is  difficult  not  to  suspect 
that  our  extraordinary  forbearance  in  the  matter  of  stone 
tlirowing  is  that  suggested  in  the  well-known  parable 
of  the  women  taken  in  adultery  which  some  early  free- 
thinker slipped  into  the  Gospel  of  St  John:  namely,  that 
we  all  live  in  glass  houses.  We  may  take  it,  then,  that 
the  ideal  husband  and  the  ideal  wife  are  no  more  real 
human  beings  than  the  cherubim.  Possibly  the  great  ma- 
jority keeps  its  marriage  vows  in  the  technical  divorce 
court  sense.  Xo  husband  or  wife  yet  born  keeps  them  or 
ever  can  keep  them  in  the  ideal  sense. 


Preface  159 

]\Iarriage  as  a  Magic  Spell 

The  tnitli  wliich  people  seem  to  overlook  in  this  matter 
is  that  the  marriage  ceremony  is  quite  useless  as  a  magic 
spell  for  changing  in  an  instant  the  nature  of  the  rela- 
tions of  two  human  beings  to  one  another.  If  a  man 
marries  a  woman  after  three  weeks  acquaintance,  and  the 
day  after  meets  a  woman  he  has  known  for  twenty  years, 
he  finds,  sometimes  to  his  own  irrational  surprise  and 
his  wife's  e(iually  irrational  indignation,  that  his  wife 
is  a  stranger  to  him,  and  the  other  woman  an  old  friend. 
Also,  there  is  no  hocus  pocus  that  can  possibly  be  de- 
vized with  rings  and  veils  and  vows  and  benedictions 
tliat  can  fix  either  a  man's  or  woman's  affection  for 
twenty  minutes,  much  less  twenty  years.  Even  the  most 
affectionate  couples  must  have  moments  during  which 
tliey  are  far  more  conscious  of  one  another's  faults  than 
of  one  another's  attractions.  There  are  couples  who  dis- 
like one  another  furiously  for  several  hours  at  a  time; 
there  are  couples  "who  dislike  one  another  permanently; 
and  there  are  couples  who  never  dislike  one  another;  but 
these  last  are  people  who  are  incapable  of  disliking  any- 
body. If  they  do  not  quarrel,  it  is  not  because  they  are 
married,  but  because  they  are  not  quarrelsome.  The 
people  who  are  quarrelsome  quarrel  with  their  husbands 
and  wives  just  as  easily  as  with  their  servants  and  rel- 
atives and  acquaintances:  marriage  makes  no  difference. 
Those  who  talk  and  write  and  legislate  as  if  all  this 
could  be  prevented  by  making  solemn  vows  that  it  shall 
not  happen,  are  either  insincere,  insane,  or  hopelessly 
stujiid.  There  is  some  sense  in  a  contract  to  perform  or 
abstain  from  actions  that  are  reasonably  within  voluntary 
control ;  hvl  such  contracts  are  only  reeded  to  provide 
against  the  possibility  of  either  party  being  no  longer  de- 
sirous of  the  specified  performance  or  abstention.  A 
person  proposing  or  accepting  a  contract  not  only  to  do 


160  Getting  Married 

something  but  to  like  doing  it  would  be  certified  as  mad. 
Yet  })opular  superstition  credits  the  wedding  rite  with 
the  power  of  fixing  our  fancies  or  affections  for  life  even 
under  the  most  unnatural  conditions. 

The  Impersonality  of  Sex 

It  is  necessary  to  lay  some  stress  on  these  points,  be- 
cause few  realize  the  extent  to  which  we  proceed  on  the 
assumption  that  marriage  is  a  sliort  cut  to  perfect  and 
permanent  intimacy  and  affection.  But  there  is  a  still 
more  unworkable  assumption  which  nuist  be  discarded 
before  discussions  of  marriage  can  get  into  any  sort  of 
touch  with  the  facts  of  life.  That  assumption  is  that  the 
specific  relation  which  marriage  authorizes  between  the 
parties  is  the  most  intimate  and  personal  of  human  rela- 
tions, and  embraces  all  the  other  higli  human  relations. 
Now  this  is  violently  untrue.  Every  adult  knows  tliat 
the  relation  in  question  can  and  does  exist  between  entire 
strangers,  different  in  language,  color,  tastes,  class,  civ- 
ilization, morals,  religion,  character:  in  everything,  in 
short,  except  their  bodily  homology  and  the  reproductive 
appetite  common  to  all  living  organisms.  Even  hatred, 
cruelty,  and  contemj^t  are  not  incompatible  with  it;  and 
jealousy  and  murder  are  as  near  to  it  as  affectionate 
friendship.  It  is  true  that  it  is  a  relation  beset  with 
wildly  extravagant  illusions  for  inexperienced  people, 
and  that  even  the  most  experienced  people  have  not 
always  sufficient  analytic  faculty  to  disentangle  it  from 
the  sentiments,  sympathetic  or  abhorrent,  which  may 
spring  up  through  the  other  relations  which  are  com- 
pulsorily  attached  to  it  by  our  laws,  or  sentimentally 
associated  with  it  in  romance.  But  the  fact  remains  that 
the  most  disastrous  marriages  are  those  founded  exclu- 
sively on  it,  and  the  most  successful  those  in  which  it 
has  been  least  considered,  and  in  which  the  decisive  con- 


Preface  161 

siderations  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  sex,  sucli  as 
liking,  money,  congeniality  of  tastes,  similarity  of  hab- 
its, suitability  of  class,  &c.,  &c. 

It  is  no  doubt  necessary  under  existing  circumstances 
for  a  woman  without  property  to  be  sexually  attractive, 
because  she  must  get  married  to  secure  a  livelihood ;  and 
the  illusions  of  sexual  attraction  will  cause  the  imagina- 
tion of  yoimg  men  to  endow  her  with  every  accom]>lish- 
ment  and  virtue  that  can  make  a  wife  a  treasure.  The 
attraction  being  thus  constantly  and  ruthlessly  used  as 
a  bait,  both  by  individuals  and  by  society,  any  discussion 
tending  to  strip  it  of  its  illusions  and  get  at  its  real 
natural  history  is  nervously  discouraged.  But  nothing 
can  well  be  more  unwholesome  for  everybody  than  the 
exaggeration  and  glorification  of  an  instinctive  function 
which  clouds  the  reason  and  upsets  the  judgment  more 
than  all  the  other  instincts  put  together.  The  process 
may  be  pleasant  and  romantic ;  but  the  consequences  are 
not.  It  would  be  far  better  for  everyone,  as  well  as  far 
honester,  if  young  people  were  taught  that  what  they 
call  love  is  an  appetite  which,  like  all  other  appetites, 
is  destroyed  for  the  moment  by  its  gratification ;  that 
no  profession,  promise,  or  ]iroposal  made  under  its  in- 
fluence should  bind  anybody ;  and  that  its  great  natural 
purpose  so  com})letely  transcends  the  personal  interests 
of  any  individual  or  even  of  any  ten  generations  of  in- 
dividuals that  it  should  be  held  to  be  an  act  of  prostitu- 
tion and  even  a  sort  of  blasphemy  to  attempt  to  turn  it 
to  account  by  exacting  a  personal  return  for  its  gratifica- 
tion, whether  by  process  of  law  or  not.  By  all  means 
let  it  be  the  subject  of  contracts  with  society  as  to  its 
consequences ;  but  to  make  marriage  an  open  trade  in  it 
as  at  present,  with  money,  board  and  lodging,  personal 
slavery,  vows  of  eternal  exclusive  personal  sentimental- 
ities and  the  rest  of  it  as  the  price,  is  neither  virtuous, 
dignified,  nor  decent.     No  husband  ever  secured  his  do- 


162  Getting  ^Married 

mestic  happiness  nnd  lionor,  nor  has  any  wife  ever  se- 
cured hers,  by  relying  on  it.  No  private  claims  of  any 
sort  should  be  founded  on  it:  the  real  point  of  honor  is 
to  take  no  corrupt  advantage  of  it.  When  we  hear  of 
young  women  bcbig  led  astray  and  the  like,  we  find  that 
what  has  led  them  astray  is  a  sedulously  inculcated  false 
notion  that  the  relation  they  are  tempted  to  contract  is 
so  intensely  personal,  nnd  the  vows  made  under  the  in- 
fluence of  its  transient  infatuation  so  sacred  and  endur- 
ing, that  only  an  atrociously  wicked  man  could  make 
light  of  or  forget  them.  Wliat  is  more,  as  the  same  fan- 
tastic errors  are  inculcated  in  men,  and  the  conscientious 
ones  therefore  feel  bound  in  honor  to  stand-by  what  they 
have  promised,  one  of  the  surest  methods  to  obtain  a 
husband  is  to  practise  on  his  susceptibilities  until  he  is 
either  carried  away  into  a  promise  of  marriage  to  which 
he  can  be  legally  held,  or  else  into  an  indiscretion  which 
he  must  repair  by  marriage  on  pain  of  having  to  regard 
himself  as  a  scoundrel  and  a  seducer,  besides  facing  the 
utmost  damage  the  lady's  relatives  can  do  him. 

Such  a  transaction  is  not  an  entrance  into  a  "  holy 
state  of  matrimony  ":  it  is  as  often  as  not  the  inaugura- 
tion of  a  lifelong  squabble,  a  corroding  grudge,  that 
causes  more  misery  and  degradation  of  character  than  a 
dozen  entirely  natural  "  desertions  "  and  "  betrayals." 
Yet  the  number  of  marriages  effected  more  or  less  in  this 
way  must  be  enormous.  When  people  say  that  love 
should  be  free,  tlieir  words,  taken  literally,  may  be  fool- 
ish; but  they  are  only  expressing  inaccurately  a  very 
re^l  need  for  the  disentanglement  of  sexual  relations 
from  a  mass  of  exorbitant  and  irrelevant  conditions  im- 
posed on  them  on  false  pretences  to  enable  needy  par- 
ents to  get  their  daughters  "  off  their  hands  "  and  to 
keep  those  who  are  already  married  effectually  enslaved 
by  one  another. 


Preface  163 

The  Economic  Slavery  of  Women 

One   of  the   consequences   of  basing  marriage   on   the 
considerations  st-ited  with  cold  abhorrence  by  Saint  Paul 
in  the  seventh  chapter  of  his  epistle  to  the  Corinthians, 
as  being  made  necessary  by  the  unlikeness  of  most  men 
to  himself,  is  that  the  sex  slavery  involved   has  become 
comphcated  by  economic  slavery;  so  that  whilst  the  man 
defends    marriage    because    he    is    really    defending    his 
pleasures,   the   woman    is    even    more    vehement   on    the 
same  side  because  she  is  defending  her  only   means   of 
livelihood.     To  a  woman  without  property  or  marketable 
talent  a  husband  is  more  necessary  than  a  master  to  a 
dog.      There  is  nothing  more  wounding  to  our  sense  of 
human  dignity  than  the  husband  lumting  that  begins  in 
every  family  when  the  daughters  become  marriageable; 
but  it  is  inevitable  under  existing  circumstances ;  and  the 
parents   who    refuse    to    engage    in    it    are    bad    parents, 
though  they  may  be  superior  individuals.      The  cubs  of 
a    luunane   tigress   would   starve ;    and    the   daughters   of 
women   who   cannot   bring   themselves   to   devote   several 
years  of  their  lives  to  the  pursuit  of  sons-in-law   often 
have  to  expatiate  their  mother's  squeamishness  by  life- 
long celibacy  and  indigence.     To  ask  a  young  man  his 
intentions  when  you  know  he  has  no  intentions,  but  is 
unable  to  deny  that  he  has  paid  attentions ;  to  threaten 
an  action  for  breach  of  promise  of  marriage ;  to  pretend 
that  your  daughter  is  a  musician  when  she  has  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  been  coached  into  playing  three  piano- 
forte pieces  which  she  loathes;  to  use  your  own  mature 
charms  to  attract  men  to  the  house  when  your  daughters 
have  no  aptitude  for  that  department  of  sport  ;^'to  coach 
them,  when  they  have,  in  the  arts  by  which  men  can  be 
led  to  compromize  themselves ;  and  to  keep  all  the  skel- 
etons carefully  locked  up   in  the   family  cupboard  until 
the  prey  is  duly  hunted  down  and  bagged:  all  this  is  a 


164  Getting  Married 

mother's  duty  todiy;  and  a  very  revolting  duty  it  is: 
one  that  disposes  of  the  conventional  assumption  that  it 
is  in  the  faithful  discharge  of  her  home  duties  that  a 
woman  finds  her  self-respect.  The  truth  is  that  family 
life  will  never  be  decent,  much  less  ennobling,  until  tliis 
central  horror  of  the  dependence  of  women  on  men  is 
done  away  with.  At  present  it  reduces  tht'  difference 
between  marriage  and  prostitution  to  the  ditference  be- 
tween Trade  Unionism  and  unorganized  casual  labor: 
a  huge  difference,  no  doubt,  as  to  order  and  comfort,  but 
not  a  difference  in  kind. 

However,  it  is  not  by  any  reform  of  the  marriage  laws 
that  this  can  be  dealt  with.  It  is  in  the  general  move- 
ment for  the  prevention  of  destitution  tliat  the  means  for 
making  women  independent  of  the  compulsory  sale  of 
their  persons,  in  marriage  or  otherwise,  will  be  found; 
but  meanwiiile  those  who  deal  specifically  with  the  mar- 
riage laws  should  never  allow  themselves  for  a  moment 
to  forget  this  abomination  that  "  plucks  the  rose  from 
the  fair  forehead  of  an  innocent  love,  and  sets  a  blister 
there,"  and  then  calmly  calls  itself  purity,  home,  mother- 
hood, resjjictability,  honor,  decency,  and  any  other  fine 
name  that  Iiappens  to  be  convenient,  not  to  mention  the 
foul  epithets  it  hurls  freely  at  those  who  are  ashamed 
of  it. 

Unpopularity  of  Impersonal  Views 

Unfortunately  it  is  very  hard  to  make  an  average  cit- 
izen take  impersonal  views  of  any  sort  in  matters  affect- 
ing personal  comfort  or  conduct.  We  may  be  enthusias- 
tic Liberals  or  Conservatives  without  any  hope  of  seats 
in  Parliament,  kniglithoods,  or  posts  in  the  Government, 
because  party  polities  do  not  make  the  slightest  differ- 
ence in  our  daily  lives  and  therefore  cost  us  nothing. 
But  to  take  a  vital  process  in  which  we  are  keenly  inter- 


Preface  165 

ested  personal  instruments,  and  ask  us  to  regard  it,  and 
feel  about  it,  and  legislate  on  it,  wholly  as  if  it  were  an 
impersonal  one,  is  to  make  a  higher  demand  than  most 
people  seem  capable  of  responding  to.  We  all  have  per- 
sonal interests  in  marriage  which  we  are  not  prepared  to 
sink.  It  is  not  only  the  women  who  want  to  get  mar- 
ried: tlie  men  do  too,  sometimes  on  sentimental  grounds, 
sometimes  on  the  more  sordid  calculation  that  bachelor 
life  is  less  comfortable  and  more  expensive,  since  a  wife 
pays  for  her  status  with  domestic  service  as  well  as  with 
the  other  services  expected  of  her.  Now  that  children 
are  avoidable,  this  calculation  is  becoming  more  common 
and  conscious  than  it  was:  a  result  which  is  regarded  as 
"  a  steady  improvement  in  general  morality." 

Impersonality  is  not  Promiscuity 

There  is,  too,  a  really  appalling  prevalence  of  the  su- 
perstition that  the  sexual  instinct  in  men  is  utterly  pro- 
miscuous, and  that  the  least  relaxation  of  law  and  cus- 
tom must  produce  a  wild  outbreak  of  licentiousness.  As 
far  as  our  moralists  can  grasp  the  proposition  that  we 
should  deal  with  the  sexual  relation  as  impersonal,  it 
seems  to  them  to  mean  that  we  should  encourage  it  to  be 
promiscuous:  hence  their  recoil  from  it.  But  promis- 
cuity and  impersonality  are  not  the  same  thing.  No 
man  ever  fell  in  love  with  the  entire  female  sex,  nor  any 
woman  with  the  entire  male  sex.  We  often  do  not  fall 
in  love  at  all ;  and  when  we  do  we  fall  in  love  with  one 
person  and  remain  indifferent  to  thousands  of  others  who 
pass  before  our  eyes  every  day.  Selection,  carried  even 
to  such  fastidiousness  as  to  induce  people  to  say  quite 
commonly  that  there  is  only  one  man  or  woman  in  the 
world  for  them,  is  the  rule  in  nature.  If  anyone  doubts 
this,  let  him  open  a  shop  for  the  sale  of  picture  post- 
cards, and,  when  an  enamoured  lady  customer  demands 


166  Getting  3Iarried 

a  portrait  of  her  favorite  actor  or  a  gentleman  of  his 
favorite  actress,  try  to  substitute  some  otlier  portrait  on 
the  ground  that  since  the  sexual  instinct  is  promiscuous, 
one  portrait  is  as  pleasing  as  another.  I  suppose  no 
shopkeeper  has  ever  been  foolish  enough  to  do  such  a 
thing;  and  yet  all  our  shopkeepers,  the  moment  a  discus- 
sion arises  on  marriage,  will  passionately  argue  against 
all  reform  on  the  ground  that  nothing  but  the  most 
severe  coercion  can  save  their  wives  and  daughters  from 
quite  indiscriminate  rapine. 

Domestic  Change  of  Air 

Our  relief  at  the  morality  of  the  reassurance  that  man 
is  not  promiscuous  in  liis  fancies  must  not  blind  us  to 
the  fact  tliat  he  is  (to  use  tlie  word  coined  by  certain 
American  writers  to  describf  themselves)  something  of  a 
Varictist.  Even  those  who  say  there  is  only  one  man 
or  woman  in  the  world  for  them,  find  that  it  is  not 
always  the  same  man  or  woman.  It  happens  that  our 
law  permits  us  to  study  this  phenomenon  among  entirely 
law-abiding  people.  I  know  one  lady  who  has  been  mar- 
ried five  times.  She  is,  as  might  be  expected,  a  wise, 
attractive,  and  interesting  woman.  The  question  is,  is 
she  wise,  attractive,  and  interesting  because  she  has  been 
married  five  times,  or  has  she  been  married  five  times 
because  she  is  wise,  attractive,  and  interesting?  Prob- 
ably some  of  the  truth  lies  both  ways.  I  also  know  of  a 
household  consisting  of  three  families,  A  ha\-ing  married 
first  B,  and  then  C,  who  afterwards  married  D.  All 
three  unions  were  fruitful ;  so  that  the  children  had  a 
change  both  of  fathers  and  mothers.  Xow  I  cannot  hon- 
estly say  that  these  and  similar  cases  have  convinced  me 
that  people  are  the  worse  for  a  change.  The  lady  who 
has  married  and  managed  five  husbands  must  be  much 
more  expert  at  it  than  most  monogamic  ladies;  and  as  a 


Preface  167 

companion  and  counsellor  she  probably  leaves  them  no- 
where.    Mr  Kipling's  question 

What  can  they  know  of  England  that  only  England  know  ? 

disposes  not  only  of  the  patriots  who  are  so  patriotic  that 
they  never  leave  their  own  country  to  look  at  another, 
but  of  the  citizens  who  are  so  domestic  that  tlicy  have 
never  married  again  and  never  loved  anyone  except  tlieir 
own  husbands  and  wives.  Tlie  domestic  doctrinaires  are 
also  the  dull  people.  The  impersonal  relation  of  sex 
may  be  judicially  reserved  for  one  person;  but  any  such 
reservation  of  friendship,  affection,  admiration,  sympa- 
thy and  so  forth  is  only  possible  to  a  wretchedly  narrow 
and  jealous  nature;  and  nicthcr  history  nor  contemporary 
society  shews  us  a  single  amiable  and  respectable  char- 
acter capable  of  it.  This  has  always  been  recognized  in 
cultivated  society:  that  is  why  poor  people  accuse  culti- 
vated society  of  profligacy,  poor  people  being  often  so 
ignorant  and  uncultivated  that  they  have  nothing  to  offer 
each  other  but  the  sex  relationship,  and  cannot  conceive 
why  men  and  women  should  associate  for  any  other 
purpose. 

As  to  the  children  of  the  triple  household,  they  were 
not  only  on  excellent  terms  %vith  one  another,  and  never 
thought  of  any  distinction  between  their  full  and  their 
half  brothers  and  sisters ;  but  they  had  the  superior  so- 
ciability wliich  distinguishes  the  people  who  live  in  com- 
munities from  those  who  live  in  small  families. 

The  inference  is  that  changes  of  partners  are  not  in 
themselves  injurious  or  undesirable.  People  are  not  de- 
moralized by  them  when  they  are  effected  according  to 
law.  Therefore  we  need  not  hesitate  to  alter  the  law 
merely  because  the  alteration  would  make  such  changes 
easier. 


168  Getting  Married 

Home  Planners  are  Bad  ^Manners 

On  the  other  hnnci,  we  have  all  seen  the  bonds  of  mar- 
riage vilely  abused  bv  pco))le  who  are  never  classed  with 
shrews  and  wife-lx^aters :  they  are  indeed  sometimes  held 
up  as  models  of  domesticity  because  they  do  not  drink 
nor  gamble  nor  neglect  their  children  nor  tolerate  dirt 
and  untidiness,  and  because  they  arc  not  amiable  enough 
to  have  what  are  called  amiable  weaknesses.  These  ter- 
rors conceive  marriage  as  a  dispensation  from  all  the 
common  civilities  and  delicacies  which  they  have  to  ob- 
serve among  strangers,  or,  as  they  put  it,  "  before  com- 
pany." And  lure  the  effects  of  indissoluble  marriage- 
for-better-for-worse  are  very  plainly  and  disagreeably 
seen.  If  such  people  took  their  domestic  manners  into 
general  society,  they  would  very  soon  find  themselves 
without  a  friend  or  even  an  acquaintance  in  the  world. 
There  are  women  who,  through  total  disuse,  have  lost  the 
power  of  kindly  human  sjieech  and  can  only  scold  and 
complain:  there  are  men  who  grumble  and  nag  from  in- 
veterate h.ibit  even  when  tiiey  are  comfortable.  But 
their  unfortunate  spouses  and  children  cannot  escape 
from  them. 

Spurious  "  Natural  "  Affection 

A^Hiat  is  more,  they  are  protected  from  even  such  dis- 
comfort as  the  dislike  of  his  prisoners  may  cause  to  a 
gaoler  by  the  hypnotism  of  the  convention  that  the  nat- 
ural relation  between  husband  and  wife  and  parent  and 
child  is  one  of  intense  affection,  and  that  to  feel  any 
other  sentiment  towards  a  member  of  one's  family  is  to 
be  a  monster.  Under  the  influence  of  the  emotion  thus 
manufactured  the  most  detestable  people  are  spoilt  with 
entirely  undeserved  deference,  obedience,  and  even  affec- 
tion whilst  they  live,  and  mourned  when   they   die  by 


Preface  169 

those  whose  lives  they  wantonly  or  maliciously  made 
miserable.  And  this  is  what  we  call  natural  conduct. 
Nothing  could  well  be  less  natural.  That  such  a  con- 
vention should  have  been  established  shews  that  the  in- 
dissolubility of  marriage  creates  such  intolerable  situa- 
tions that  only  by  beglanioring  the  human  im.igination 
witli  a  hypnotic  suggestion  of  wholly  unnatural  feelings 
can  it  be  made  to  keep  up  appearances. 

If  the  sentimental  theory  of  family  relationship  en- 
courages bad  manners  and  personal  slovenliness  and  un- 
cleanness  in  the  home,  it  also,  in  the  case  of  sentimental 
people,  encourages  the  practice  of  rousing  and  playing 
on  the  affections  of  children  prematurely  and  far  too  fre- 
quently. The  lady  who  says  that  as  her  religion  is  love, 
her  children  shall  be  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere 
of  love,  and  institutes  a  system  of  sedulous  endearments 
and  exchanges  of  presents  and  conscious  and  studied  acts 
of  artificial  kindness,  may  be  defeated  in  a  large  family 
by  the  healthy  derision  and  rebellion  of  children  who 
have  acquired  hardiliood  and  common  sense  in  their  con- 
flicts with  one  another.  But  the  small  families,  which 
are  the  rule  just  now,  succumb  more  easily;  and  in  the 
ease  of  a  single  sensitive  child  tlie  effect  of  being  forced 
in  a  hothouse  atmosphere  of  unnatural  affection  may  be 
disastrous. 

In  short,  whichever  way  you  take  it,  the  convention 
that  marriage  and  family  relationship  produce  special 
feelings  which  alter  the  nature  of  human  intercourse  is 
a  mischievous  one.  The  whole  difficulty  of  bringing  up 
a  family  well  is  the  difficulty  of  making  its  members  be- 
have as  considerately  at  home  as  on  a  visit  in  a  strange 
house,  and  as  frankly,  kindly,  and  easily  in  a  strange 
house  as  at  home.  In  the  middle  classes,  where  the  seg- 
regation of  the  artificially  limited  family  in  its  little 
brick  box  is  horribly  complete,  bad  manners,  ugly 
dresses,  awkwardness,  cowardice,  peevishness,  and  all  the 


170  Getting  Married 

petty  vices  of  unsociability  flourish  like  mushrooms  in  a 
cellar.  In  the  upper  class,  where  families  are  not  limited 
for  money  reasons;  where  at  least  two  houses  and  some- 
times three  or  four  are  the  rule  (not  to  mention  the 
clubs);  where  there  is  travelling;  and  hotel  life;  and 
where  the  men  are  brought  up,  not  in  the  family,  but  in 
public  schools,  universities,  and  the  naval  and  military 
services,  besides  being  constanth'  in  social  training  in 
other  people's  houses,  the  result  is  to  produce  what  may 
be  called,  in  comparison  with  tlie  middle  class,  something 
that  might  almost  pass  as  a  different  and  much  more 
sociable  species.  And  in  the  very  poorest  class,  where 
peo{)le  have  no  liomes,  only  sleejnng  places,^  and  conse- 
quently live  practically  in  the  streets,  sociability  again 
appears,  leaving  the  middle  class  despised  and  disliked 
for  its  helpless  and  offensive  unsociability  as  much  by 
those  below  it  as  those  above  it,  and  yet  ignorant  enough 
to  be  proud  of  it,  and  to  hold  itself  up  as  a  model  for 
the  reform  of  the  (as  it  considers)  elegantly  vicious  rich 
and  profligate  poor  alike. 

Carrying  tlie  War  into  the  Enemy's 
Country 

Without  pretending  to  exliaust  the  subject,  I  have 
said  enough  to  make  it  clear  that  the  moment  we  lose  the 
desire  to  defend  our  present  matrimonial  and  family  ar- 
rangements, there  will  be  no  difficulty  in  making  out  an 
overwhelming  case  against  them.  Xo  doubt  until  then 
we  shall  continue  to  hold  up  the  British  home  as  the 
Holy  of  Holies  in  the  temple  of  honorable  motherhood, 
innocent  childhood,  manly  virtue,  and  sweet  and  whole- 
some national  life.  But  with  a  clever  turn  of  the  hand 
this  holy  of  holies  can  be  exposed  as  an  Augean  stable, 
so  filthy  that  it  would  seem  more  hopeful  to  burn  it  down 
than  to  attempt  to  sweep  it  out.     And  this  latter  view 


Preface  171 

will  perhaps  prevail  if  the  idolaters  of  marriage  persist 
in  refusing  all  proposals  for  reform  and  treating  those 
who  advocate  it  as  infamous  delinquents.  Neither  view 
is  of  any  use  except  as  a  poisoned  arrow  in  a  fierce  fight 
between  two  parties  determined  to  discredit  each  other 
with  a  view  to  obtaining  powers  of  legal  coercion  over 
one  another. 


Shelley  and  Queen  Victoria 

The  best  way  to  avert  such  a  struggle  is  to  open  the 
eyes  of  the  thoughtlessly  conventional  people  to  the 
weakness  of  their  position  in  a  mere  contest  of  recrim- 
ination. Hitherto  they  liave  assumed  that  tlie^'^  have  the 
advantage  of  coming  into  the  field  without  a  stain  on 
their  characters  to  combat  libertines  who  have  no  charac- 
ter at  all.  They  conceive  it  to  be  their  duty  to  throw 
mud ;  and  they  feel  that  even  if  the  enemy  can  find  any 
mud  to  throw,  none  of  it  will  stick.  They  are  mistaken. 
There  will  be  plenty  of  that  sort  of  ammunition  in  the 
other  camp;  and  most  of  it  will  stick  very  hard  indeed. 
The  moral  is,  do  not  throw  any.  If  we  can  imagine 
Shelley  and  Queen  Victoria  arguing  out  their  diflferences 
in  another  world,  we  may  be  sure  tliat  the  Queen  has 
long  ago  found  that  she  cannot  settle  the  question  by 
classing  Shelley  with  George  IV.  as  a  bad  man;  and 
Shelley  is  not  likely  to  have  called  her  vile  names  on 
the  general  ground  that  as  the  economic  dependence  of 
women  makes  marriage  a  money  bargain  in  which  the 
man  is  the  purchaser  and  the  woman  tlie  purchased,  there 
is  no  essential  difference  between  a  married  woman  and 
the  woman  of  the  streets.  Unfortimately,  all  the  people 
whose  methods  of  controversy  are  represented  by  our 
popular  newspapers  are  not  Queen  Victorias  and  Shel- 
leys.  A  great  mass  of  them,  when  their  prejudices  are 
challenged,  have  no  other  impulse  than  to  call  the  chal- 


172 


Getting  Married 


lenger  names,  ."ind,  when  the  crowd  seems  to  be  on  their 
side,  to  maltreat  him  personally  or  hand  him  over  to  the 
law,  if  he  is  vulnerable  to  it.  Therefore  I  cannot  say 
that  I  have  any  certainty  that  the  marriage  question  will 
be  dealt  with  decently  and  tolerantly.  But  dealt  with 
it  will  be.  decently  or  indecently;  for  the  present  state 
of  things  in  England  is  too  strained  and  mischievous  to 
last.  Europe  and  America  have  left  us  a  century  behind 
in  this  matter. 


A  Probable  Effect  of  Giving  Women  tlie 
Vote 

The  political  emancipation  of  women  is  likely  to  lead 
to  a  comparatively  stringent  enforcement  by  law  of 
sexual  morality  (that  is  why  so  many  of  us  dread  it)  ; 
and  this  will  soon  compel  us  to  consider  what  our  sexual 
morality  shall  be.  At  present  a  ridiculous  distinction  is 
made  bttwcen  vice  and  crime,  in  order  that  men  may  be 
vicious  with  impunity.  Adultery,  for  instance,  though 
it  is  sometimes  fiercely  punished  by  giving  an  injured 
husband  crushing  damages  in  a  divorce  suit  (injured 
wives  are  not  considered  in  this  way),  is  not  now  di- 
rectly prosecuted;  and  this  impunity  extends  to  illicit 
relations  between  unmarried  ))ersons  who  have  reached 
what  is  called  the  age  of  consent.  There  are  other  mat- 
ters, such  as  notification  of  contagious  disease  and  solic- 
itation, in  which  the  hand  of  the  law  has  been  brought 
down  on  one  sex  only.  Outrages  which  were  capital 
ofl'ences  within  the  memory  of  persons  still  living  when 
committed  on  women  outside  marriage,  can  still  be  in- 
flicted by  men  on  their  wives  without  legal  remedy.  At 
all  such  points  the  code  will  be  screwed  up  by  the  opera- 
tion of  \'otes  for  Women,  if  there  be  any  virtue  in  the 
franchise  at  all.  The  result  will  be  that  men  will  find 
the  more  ascetic  side  of  our  sexual  morality  taken  seri- 


Preface  173 

ously  by  the  law.  It  is  easy  to  foresee  the  consequences. 
No  man  will  take  niuch  trouble  to  alter  laws  which  he 
can  evade,  or  wliicli  are  cither  not  enforced  or  enforced 
on  women  only.  But  when  these  laws  take  liini  by  the 
collar  and  thrust  him  into  prison,  he  suddenly  becomes 
keenly  critical  of  them,  and  of  the  arguments  by  which 
they  are  supported.  Now  we  have  seen  that  our  mar- 
riage laws  will  not  stand  criticism,  and  that  they  have 
held  out  so  far  only  because  they  are  so  worked  as  to  fit 
roughly  our  state  of  society,  in  which  women  arc  neither 
politically  nor  personally  free,  in  which  indeed  women 
are  called  womanly  only  when  they  regard  themselves  as 
existing  solely  for  the  use  of  men.  When  Liberalism  en- 
franchises them  politically,  and  Socialism  emancij)ates 
them  economically,  tliey  will  no  longer  allow  tiie  law  to 
take  immorality  so  easily.  Both  men  and  women  will  be 
forced  to  behave  morally  in  sex  matters ;  and  when  they 
find  that  this  is  inevitable  they  will  raise  the  question 
of  what  behavior  really  should  he  established  as  moral. 
If  they  decide  in  favor  of  our  present  professed  morality, 
they  will  have  to  make  a  revolutionary  change  in  their 
habits  by  becoming  in  fact  what  they  only  pretend  to  be 
at  present.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  they  find  that  this 
would  be  an  unbearable  tyranny,  without  even  the  excuse 
of  justice  or  sound  eugenics,  they  will  reconsider  their 
morality  and  remodel  the  law. 

The  Personal  Sentimental  Basis  of 
^Monoo^amv 

Monogamy  has  a  sentimental  basis  which  is  quite  dis- 
tinct from  the  political  one  of  equal  numbers  of  the 
sexes.  Equal  numbers  in  the  sexes  are  quite  compatible 
with  a  change  of  partners  every  day  or  every  hour. 
Physically  there  is  nothing  to  distinguish  human  society 
from    the     farm-yard    except    that    children     are    more 


174  Getting  Married 


o 


troublesome  and  costly  than  chickens  and  calves,  and 
tliat  men  and  women  are  not  so  completely  enslaved  as 
farm  stock.  Accordingly,  the  people  whose  conception 
of  marriage  is  a  farm-yard  or  slave-quarter  conception 
arc  always  more  or  less  in  a  panic  lest  the  slightest  re- 
laxation of  the  marriage  laws  should  utterly  demoralize 
society;  whilst  those  to  whom  marriage  is  a  matter  of 
more  highly  evolved  sentiments  and  needs  (sometimes 
said  to  be  distinctively  human,  though  birds  and  animals 
in  a  state  of  freedom  evince  them  quite  as  touchingly  as 
we)  are  much  more  liberal,  knowing  as  they  do  that 
monogamy  will  take  care  of  itself  provided  the  parties 
are  free  enough,  and  that  promiscuity  is  a^  product  of 
slavery  and  not  of  liberty. 

The  solid  foundation  of  their  confidence  is  the  fact 
that  the  relationshij)  set  up  by  a  comfortable  marriage 
is  so  intimate  and  so  persuasive  of  the  whole  life  of  the 
parties  to  it,  that  nobody  has  room  in  liis  or  her  life 
for  more  than  one  such  relationship  at  a  time.  \Vliat  is 
called  a  liousehold  of  three  is  never  really  of  three  except 
in  the  sense  that  every  household  becomes  a  household 
of  tiiree  when  a  child  is  bom,  and  may  in  the  same  way 
become  a  household  of  four  or  fourteen  if  the  union  be 
fertile  enough.  Now  no  doubt  tlie  marriage  tie  means 
so  little  to  some  people  that  the  addition  to  the  house- 
hold of  half  a  dozen  more  wives  or  husbands  would  be 
as  possible  as  the  addition  of  half  a  dozen  governesses 
or  tutors  or  visitors  or  sen'ants.  A  Sultan  may  have 
fifty  wives  as  easily  as  he  may  have  fifty  dishes  on  his 
table,  because  in  the  English  sense  he  has  no  wives  at 
all;  nor  have  his  wives  any  husband:  in  short,  he  is  not 
what  we  call  a  married  man.  And  there  are  sultans  and 
sultanas  and  seraglios  existing  in  England  under  Eng- 
lish forms.  But  when  you  come  to  the  real  modem  mar- 
riage of  sentiment,  a  relation  is  created  which  has  never 
to  my  knowledge  been  shared  by  three  persons  except 


Preface  175 

when  all  three  have  been  extraordinarily  fond  of  one 
another.  Take  for  example  the  famous  case  of  Nelson 
and  Sir  William  and  Lady  Hamilton.  The  secret  of 
this  household  of  tliree  was  not  only  that  both  the  hus- 
band and  Nelson  were  devoted  to  Lady  Hamilton,  but 
that  they  M-ere  also  apparently  devoted  to  one  another. 
Wlien  Hamilton  died  both  Nelson  and  Emma  seem  to 
have  been  equally  heartbroken.  When  there  is  a  success-  ' 
ful  household  of  one  man  and  two  women  the  same  un- 
usual condition  is  fultillcd:  the  two  women  not  only  can- 
not live  hajipily  without  the  man  but  cannot  live  happily 
witiiout  each  other.  In  every  other  case  known  to  me, 
either  from  observation  or  record,  the  experiment  is  a 
hopeless  failure:  one  of  the  two  rivals  for  the  really  in- 
timate affection  of  the  third  inevitably  drives  out  the 
otlier.  The  driven-out  party  may  accept  the  situation 
and  remain  in  the  house  as  a  friend  to  save  appearances, 
or  for  the  sake  of  the  cliildren,  or  for  economic  reasons; 
but  such  an  arrangement  can  subsist  onl\^  when  the  for- 
feited relation  is  no  longer  really  valued;  and  this  in- 
difference, like  the  triple  bond  of  affection  which  carried 
Sir  William  Hamilton  through,  is  so  rare  as  to  be  prac- 
ticably negligible  in  the  establishment  of  a  conventional 
morality  of  marriage.  Therefore  sensible  and  experi- 
enced people  always  assume  that  when  a  declaration  of 
love  is  made  to  an  already  married  person,  the  declara- 
tion binds  the  parties  in  honor  never  to  see  one  another 
again  unless  they  contemplate  divorce  and  remarriage. 
And  this  is  a  sound  convention,  even  for  unconventional 
people.  Let  me  illustrate  by  reference  to  a  fictitious 
case:  the  one  imagined  in  my  own  play  Candida  will  do 
as  well  as  another.  Here  a  young  man  who  has  been 
received  as  a  friend  into  the  house  of  a  clergyman  falls 
in  love  with  the  clergyman's  wife,  and,  being  young  and 
inexperienced,  declares  his  feelings,  and  elainis  that  he, 
and  not  the  clergyman,  is  the  more  suitable  mate  for  the 


176  Getting  ^larried 

lady.  The  clergyman,  who  has  a  temper,  is  first  tempted 
to  hurl  the  youth  into  the  street  by  bodily  violence:  an 
impulse  natural,  jierliaps,  but  vulgar  and  imiiroper,  and 
not  open,  on  consideration,  to  decent  men.  Even  coarse 
and  inconsiderate  men  are  restrained  from  it  bv  the  fact 
tliat  tlic  syuipatl)y  of  tlie  woman  turns  naturally  to  the 
victim  of  pliysical  brutality  and  against  the  bully,  the 
Thackerayan  notion  to  tlie  contrary  being  one  of  the 
illusions  of  literary  masculinity.  Besides,  the  husband 
is  not  necessarily  the  stronger  man:  an  appeal  to  force 
has  resulted  in  tlie  ignominious  defeat  of  the  husband 
quite  as  often  as  in  poetic  justice  as  conceived  in  the 
conventional  novelet.  What  an  honorable  >ind  sensible 
man  does  when  his  household  is  invaded  is  what  the  Rev- 
erend James  Mavor  Morell  does  in  my  play.  He  recog- 
nizes that  just  as  there  is  not  room  for  two  women  in 
that  sacredly  intimate  relation  of  sentimental  domesticity 
which  is  what  marriage  means  to  him,  so  there  is  no 
room  for  two  men  in  that  relation  with  his  wife;  and  he 
accordingly  tells  her  firmly  that  she  must  choose  which 
man  will  occupy  the  place  that  is  large  enough  for  one 
only.  He  is  so  far  shrewdly  unconventional  as  to  rec- 
ognize that  if  she  chooses  the  other  man,  he  must  give 
way,  legal  tie  or  no  legal  tie;  but  he  knows  that  either 
one  or  the  other  must  go.  And  a  sensible  wife  would 
act  in  tlie  same  way.  If  a  romantic  young  lady  came  into 
her  house  and  propostd  to  adore  her  husband  on  a  tol- 
erated footing,  she  would  say  "  My  husband  has  not 
room  in  his  life  for  two  wives:  either  you  go  out  of  the 
house  or  I  go  out  of  it,"  The  situation  is  not  at  all  un- 
likely: I  had  almost  said  not  at  all  unusual.  Young 
ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the  greensickly  condition  which 
is  called  calf-love,  associating  with  married  couples  at 
dangerous  periods  of  mature  life,  quite  often  find  them- 
selves in  it;  and  the  extreme  reluctance  of  proud  and 
sensitive  people  to  avoid  any   assertion   of  matrimonial 


Preface  177 

rights,  or  to  condescend  to  jealousy,  sometimes  makes 
the  threatened  husband  or  wife  hesitate  to  take  prompt 
steps  and  do  the  apparently  conventional  thing.  But 
whether  they  hesitate  or  act  the  result  is  always  the 
same.  In  a  real  marriage  of  sentiment  the  wife  or  hus- 
band cannot  be  supplanted  by  halves ;  and  such  a  mar- 
riage will  break  very  soon  under  the  strain  of  j^olygynj'' 
or  ]iolyandry.  What  we  want  at  present  is  a  sufficiently 
clear  teaching  of  this  fact  to  ensure  that  prompt  and 
decisive  action  shall  always  be  taken  in  such  cases  with- 
out any  false  shame  of  seeming  conventional  (a  shame  to 
whicli  people  capable  of  such  real  marriage  are  specially 
susceptible),  and  a  rational  divorce  law  to  enable  the 
marriage  to  be  dissolved  and  the  parties  honorably  re- 
sorted and  recoupled  without  disgrace  and  scandal  if 
that  should  prove  tlie  j)roper  solution. 

It  must  be  repeated  here  that  no  law,  however  strin- 
gent, can  prevent  polygamy  among  groups  of  people  who 
choose  to  live  loosely  and  be  monogamous  only  in  ap- 
pearance. But  such  eases  are  not  now  under  considera- 
tion. Also,  affectionate  husbands  like  Samuel  Pepys,  and 
affectionate  wives  of  the  corresponding  temperament, 
may,  it  appears,  engage  in  transient  casual  adventures 
out  of  doors  without  breaking  up  tluir  home  life.  But 
within  doors  that  home  life  may  be  regarded  as  naturally 
monogamous.  It  does  not  need  to  be  protected  against 
polygamy:  it  protects  itself. 

Divorce 

All  this  has  an  important  bearing  on  the  question  of 
divorce.  Divorce  reformers  are  so  much  preoccupied 
with  the  injustice  of  forbidding  a  woman  to  divorce  her 
husband  for  unfaithfulness  to  his  marriage  vow,  whilst 
allowing  him  that  power  over  her,  that  they  are  apt  to 
overlook  the  pressing  need  for  admitting  other  and  far 


178  Gettiiiii  ]^.Iarried 


in 


more  iiiiportnnt  grounds  for  divorce.  If  wc  take  r,  docu- 
ment like  Pepys'  Diary,  we  learn  that  a  woman  may  haVv." 
an  incorrijrihly  unfaithful  husband,  and  yet  be  much  bet- 
ter off  than  if  she  had  an  ill-temj)ered,  peevish,  mali- 
ciously sarcastic  one,  or  was  chained  for  life  to  a  crimi- 
nal, a  drunkard,  a  lunatic,  an  idle  vagrant,  or  a  person 
whose  religious  faith  was  contrary  to  her  own.  Imagine 
being  married  to  a  liar,  a  borrower,  a  mischief  maker,  a 
teaser  or  tormentor  of  children  and  animals,  or  even  sini- 
])ly  to  a  bore!  Conceive  yourself  tied  for  life  to  one  of 
the  perfectly  "  faithful  "  husbands  who  arc  sentenced  to 
a  month's  imprisonment  occasionally  for  idly  leaving 
their  wives  in  childbirth  without  food,  fire,  or 'attendance  I 
^^'h.^t  woman  would  not  rather  marry  ten  Pepyses?  what 
man  a  dozen  Nell  Ciwynnes?  Adultery,  far  from  being 
the  first  and  oidy  ground  for  divorce,  might  more  reason- 
ably be  made  the  last,  or  wholly  excluded.  The  present 
law  is  perfectly  logical  only  if  you  once  admit  (as  no 
decent  person  ever  does)  its  fundamental  assumption 
that  there  can  be  no  companionship  between  men  and 
women  because  the  woman  has  a  "  sphere  "  of  her  own, 
that  of  housekeeping,  in  which  the  man  must  not  meddle, 
wliilst  he  has  all  the  rest  of  human  activity  for  his 
sphere:  the  only  jioint  at  which  the  two  spheres  touch 
being  that  of  replenishing  the  i)opulation.  On  this  as- 
sumption the  man  naturally  asks  for  a  guarantee  that  the 
children  shall  be  his  because  he  has  to  find  the  money  to 
support  them.  The  power  of  divorcing  a  woman  for 
adultery  is  this  guarantee,  a  guarantee  that  she  does  not 
need  to  protect  her  against  a  similar  imposture  on  his 
part,  because  he  cannot  bear  children.  No  doubt  he  can 
spend  the  money  that  ought  to  be  spent  on  her  children 
on  another  woman  and  her  children ;  but  this  is  desertion, 
which  is  a  separate  matter.  The  fact  for  us  to  seize  is 
that  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  adultery  without  consequences 
is  merel}'  a  sentimental  grievance,  whereas  the  planting 


Preface  179 

on  one  man  of  another  man's  offspring  is  a  substantial 
one.  And  so,  no  doubt,  it  is ;  but  the  day  has  gone  by  for 
basing  laws  on  the  assumption  that  a  woman  is  less  to 
a  man  than  his  dog,  and  thereby  encouraging  and  accept- 
ing the  standards  of  tlie  husbands  who  buy  me.it  for  their 
bull-pups  and  leave  their  wives  and  children  hungry. 
That  basis  is  the  penalty  we  pay  for  having  borrowed 
our  religion  from  the  East,  instead  of  building  up  a  re- 
ligion of  our  own  out  of  our  western  inspiration  and  west- 
ern sentiment.  The  result  is  that  we  all  believe  that  our 
religion  is  on  its  last  legs,  whereas  tlie  truth  is  that  it  is 
not  yet  born,  thougli  the  age  walks  visibly  pregnant  with 
it.  Meanwhile,  as  women  are  dragged  down  by  their  ori- 
ental servitude  to  our  men,  and  as,  further,  women  drag 
down  those  who  degrade  them  quite  as  effectually  as  men 
do,  there  are  moments  when  it  is  ditfieult  to  see  anything 
in  our  sex  institutions  except  a  police  des  moeurs  keeping 
the  field  for  a  competition  as  to  which  sex  shall  corrupt 
the  other  most. 

Importance  of  Sentimental  Grievances 

Any  tolerable  western  divorce  law  must  put  the  senti- 
mental grievances  first,  and  should  carefully  avoid  sing- 
ling out  any  ground  of  divorce  in  such  a  way  as  to  cre- 
ate a  convention  that  persons  having  that  groimd  are 
boimd  in  honor  to  avail  themselves  of  it.  It  is  generally 
admitted  that  people  should  not  be  encouraged  to  petition 
for  a  divorce  in  a  fit  of  petulance.  What  is  not  so  clearly 
seen  is  that  neither  should  they  be  encouraged  to  petition 
in  a  fit  of  jealousy,  which  is  certainly  the  most  detest- 
able and  mischievous  of  all  the  passions  that  enjoy  pub- 
lic credit.  Still  less  should  people  who  are  not  jealous 
be  urged  to  behave  as  if  they  were  jealous,  and  to  enter 
upon  duels  and  divorce  suits  in  which  they  have  no  de- 
sire to  be  successful.     There  should  be  no  publication  of 


180  Getting  :Married 


& 


the  grounds  on  which  a  divorce  is  sought  or  granted ;  and 
as  this  would  abolisli  the  only  means  the  public  now  has 
of  ascertaining  that  every  possible  effort  has  been  made 
to  keep  the  couple  united  against  their  wills,  such  pri- 
vacy will  only  be  tolerated  when  we  at  last  admit  that 
the  sole  and  sufficient  reason  why  people  should  be 
granted  a  divorce  is  that  they  want  one.  Then  there  will 
be  no  more  reports  of  divorce  cases,  no  more  letters  read 
in  court  with  an  indelicacy  that  makes  every  sensitive 
person  shudder  and  recoil  as  from  a  profanation,  no  more 
washing  of  household  linen,  dirty  or  clean,  in  public. 
We  nuist  learn  in  these  matters  to  mind  our  own  business 
and  not  imj)ose  our  individual  notions  of  ]>ropriety  on  one 
another,  even  if  it  carries  us  to  the  length  of  openly  ad- 
mitting what  we  are  now  compelled  to  assume  silently, 
that  every  human  being  has  a  right  to  sexual  experience, 
and  that  the  law  is  concerned  only  with  parentage,  which 
is  now  a  separate  matter. 


Divorce  Without  Asking  Why 

The  one  question  that  should  never  be  put  to  a  peti- 
tioner for  divorce  is  "Why.''"  When  a  man  appeals  to 
a  magistrate  for  jirotection  from  someone  who  threatens 
to  kill  him.  on  the  simple  ground  that  he  desires  to  live, 
the  magistrate  might  quite  reasonably  ask  him  why  he 
desires  to  live,  and  why  the  person  who  wishes  to  kill  him 
should  not  be  gratified.  Also  whether  he  can  prove  that 
his  life  is  a  pleasure  to  himself  or  a  benefit  to  anyone 
else,  and  whether  it  is  good  for  him  to  be  encouraged  to 
exaggerate  the  importance  of  his  short  span  in  this  vale 
of  tears  rather  than  to  keep  himself  constantly  ready  to 
meet  his  God. 

The  onh'  reason  for  not  raising  these  very  weighty 
points  is  that  we  find  society  unworkable  except  on  the 


Preface  181 

assumption  that  every  man  has  a  natural  right  to  live. 
Nothing  short  of  his  own  refusal  to  respect  that  right  in 
others  can  reconcile  the  community  to  killing  him.  From 
this  fundamental  right  many  others  are  derived.  The 
American  Constitution,  one  of  the  few  modern  political 
documents  drawn  up  by  men  who  were  forced  by  the 
sternest  circumstances  to  think  out  what  they  realh*  had 
to  face  instead  of  choi)ping  logic  in  a  university  class- 
room, specifies  "  liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness  " 
as  natural  rights.  The  terms  are  too  vague  to  be  of  much 
practical  use ;  for  the  supreme  righ.t  to  life,  extended  as 
it  now  must  be  to  the  life  of  the  race,  and  to  the  quality 
of  life  as  well  as  to  the  mere  fact  of  breathing,  is  making 
short  work  of  many  ancient  liberties,  and  exposing  the 
pursuit  of  happiness  as  perhaps  the  most  miserable  of 
human  occupations.  Nevertheless,  the  American  Con- 
stitution roughlv  expresses  the  conditions  to  which  mod- 
ern democracy  commits  us.  To  impose  marriage  on  two 
unmarried  people  who  do  not  desire  to  marry  one  an- 
other would  be  admittedly  an  act  of  enslavement.  But 
it  is  no  worse  than  to  impose  a  continuation  of  marriage 
on  people  who  have  ceased  to  desire  to  be  married.  It 
will  be  said  that  the  parties  may  not  agree  on  that;  that 
one  may  desire  to  maintain  the  marriage  the  other  wishes 
to  dissolve.  But  the  same  hardship  arises  whenever  a 
man  in  love  proposes  marriage  to  a  woman  and  is  re- 
fused. The  refusal  is  so  painful  to  him  that  he  often 
threatens  to  kill  himself  and  sometimes  even  does  it. 
Yet  we  expect  him  to  face  his  ill  luck,  and  never  dream 
of  forcing  the  woman  to  accept  him.  His  case  is  the 
same  as  that  of  the  husband  whose  wife  tells  him  she  no 
longer  cares  for  him,  and  desires  the  marriage  to  be 
dissolved.  You  will  say,  perhaps,  if  you  are  supersti- 
tious, that  it  is  not  the  same — that  marriage  makes  a 
difference.  You  are  wrong:  there  is  no  magic  in  mar- 
riage.    If  there  were,  married  couples  would  never  de- 


182  Getting  JMarried 

sire  to  separate.     But  they  do.     And  when  they  do,  it 
is  simple  slavery  to  compel  them  to  remain  together. 

Economic  Slavery  Again  the  Root 
Difficulty 

The  luisband,  then,  is  to  be  allowed  to  discard  his  wife 
wlien  he  is  tired  of  her,  and  the  wife  the  husband  when 
another  man  strikes  her  fancy?  One  must  reply  unhesi- 
tatingly in  the  affirmative;  for  if  we  are  to  deny  every 
})r()po,sition  that  can  be  stated  in  offensive  terms  by  its 
opponents,  we  shall  never  be  able  to  affirm  anything  at 
all.  But  tlic  question  reminds  us  that  until  tlie  economic 
independence  of  women  is  achieved,  we  sliall  have  to  re- 
main impaled  on  the  other  horn  of  the  dilemma  and 
maintain  marriage  as  a  slavery.  And  here  let  me  ask  the 
Government  of  the  day  (lyiO)  a  question  with  regard 
to  the  Labor  Exchanges  it  has  very  wisely  established 
tliroughout  the  country.  W'liat  do  tliesc  P^xchangcs  do 
M-heii  a  woman  enters  and  states  that  her  occupation  is 
that  of  a  wife  and  mother;  that  she  is  out  of  a  job;  and 
that  she  wants  an  employer.''  If  the  Exchanges  refuse 
to  entertain  her  application,  they  are  clearly  excluding 
nearly  the  whole  female  sex  from  the  benefit  of  the  Act. 
If  not,  they  must  become  matrimonial  agencies,  unless, 
indeed,  they  are  prepared  to  become  something  worse  by 
putting  the  woman  down  as  a  housekeeper  and  introduc- 
ing her  to  an  employer  without  making  marriage  a  con- 
dition of  the  hiring. 

Labor  Exchanges  and  the  White  Slavery 

Suppose,  again,  a  woman  presents  herself  at  the  Labor 
Exchange,  and  states  her  trade  as  that  of  a  White  Slave, 
meaning  the  unmentionable  trade  pursued  by  many 
thousands   of   women   in   all  civilized  cities.      Will  the 


i 


Preface  183 

Labor  Exchange  find  employers  for  her?  If  not,  what 
will  it  do  with  her?  If  it  throws  her  back  destitute  and 
unhelped  on  the  streets  to  starve,  it  might  as  well  not 
exist  as  far  as  she  is  concerned ;  and  the  problem  of  un- 
employment remains  unsolved  at  its  most  painful  point. 
Yet  if  it  finds  honest  emi)loymcnt  for  her  and  for  all  the 
unemployed  wives  and  mothers,  it  must  find  new  places 
in  the  world  for  women ;  and  in  so  doing  it  must  achieve 
for  them  economic  independence  of  men.  And  when 
this  is  done,  can  we  feel  sure  that  any  woman  will  con- 
sent to  be  a  wife  and  mother  (not  to  mention  the  less  re- 
spectable alternative)  imless  her  position  is  made  as  eli- 
gible as  that  of  the  women  for  whom  the  Labor  Ex- 
changes are  finding  independent  work?  Will  not  many 
women  now  engaged  in  domestic  work  under  circum- 
stances which  make  it  repugnant  to  them,  abandon  it  and 
seek  employment  under  other  circumstances  ?  As  unhap- 
piness  in  marriage  is  almost  the  only  discomfort  suffi- 
ciently irksome  to  induce  a  woman  to  break  up  her  home, 
and  economic  dependence  the  only  compulsion  sufficiently 
stringent  to  force  her  to  endure  such  unhappincss,  the 
solution  of  the  problem  of  finding  independent  employ- 
ment for  women  may  cause  a  great  number  of  childless 
imhappy  marriages  to  break  up  spontaneously,  whether 
the  marriage  laws  are  altered  or  not.  And  here  we  must 
extend  the  term  childless  marriages  to  cover  households 
in  which  the  children  have  grown  up  and  gone  their  own 
way,  leaving  the  parents  alone  together:  a  point  at 
which  many  worthy  couples  discover  for  the  first  time 
that  they  have  long  since  lost  interest  in  one  another, 
and  have  been  united  only  by  a  common  interest  in  their 
children.  We  may  expect,  then,  that  marriages  which 
are  maintained  by  economic  pressure  alone  will  dissolve 
when  that  pressure  is  removed;  and  as  all  the  parties  to 
them  will  certainly  not  accept  a  celibate  life,  the  law 
must  sanction  the  dissolution  in  order  to  prevent  a  recur- 


184  Getting  :MaiTied 

rcnce  of  the  scandal  wliich  has  moved  the  Government 
to  appoint  the  Commission  now  sitting  to  investigate  the 
marriage  question:  the  scandal,  tliat  is,  of  a  great  number 
of  })ersons,  condemned  to  celibacy  by  magisterial  sepa- 
ration orders,  and,  of  course,  refusing  to  submit  to  the 
coiid'mnation,  forming  illicit  connections  to  an  extent 
wliieh  threatens  to  familiarize  the  working  classes  with 
an  open  disuse  of  marriage.  In  short,  once  set  women 
free  from  their  economic  slavery,  and  you  will  find  that 
imless  divorce  is  made  as  easy  as  the  dissolution  of  a 
business  ])artncrship,  the  ])ractice  of  disptnsing  with 
marriage  will  presently  become  so  common  that  conven- 
tional couples  will  be  ashamed  to  get  married. 

Divorce  Favorable  to  ^Marriage 

Divorce,  in  fact,  is  not  the  destruction  of  marriage, 
but  tlie  first  condition  of  its  maintenance.  A  thousand 
indissoluble  marriages  mean  a  tliousand  marriages  and 
no  more.  A  tliousand  divorces  may  mean  two  thousand 
marriages;  for  the  coui)Ks  may  marry  again.  Divorce 
oidy  re-assorts  tlie  couples :  a  very  desirable  thing  when 
they  are  ill-assorted.  Also,  it  makes  people  much  more 
willing  to  marry,  especially  prudent  people  and  proud 
peo{)le  with  a  high  sense  of  self-respect.  Further,  the 
fact  tliat  a  divorce  is  possible  often  prevents  its  being 
petitioned  for,  not  only  because  it  puts  married  couples 
on  their  good  behavior  towards  one  another,  but  because, 
as  no  room  feels  like  a  prison  if  the  door  is  left  open,  the 
removal  of  the  sense  of  bondage  would  at  once  make  mar- 
riage much  happier  than  it  is  now.  Also,  if  the  door 
■were  always  open,  there  would  be  no  need  to  rush 
through  it  as  there  is  now  when  it  opens  for  one  moment 
in  a  lifetime,  and  may  never  open  again. 

From  this  point  of  view  England  has  the  worst  civil 
marriage  law  in  the  world,  with  the  exception  of  silly 


Preface  185 

South  Carolina.  In  every  other  reasonably  civilized 
country  the  j^rounds  on  which  divorce  can  be  granted  ad- 
mit of  so  wide  an  inter])ri-tation  that  all  unliappy  mar- 
riages can  be  dissolved  without  resorting  to  the  shameful 
shifts  imposed  by  our  law.  Yet  the  figures  just  given 
to  the  Royal  Conniiission  shew  that  in  the  State  of  ^^'ash- 
ington,  where  there  are  eleven  different  grounds  of  di- 
vorce, and  where,  in  fact,  divorce  can  be  had  for  the 
asking  at  a  negligible  cost,  the  divorce  rate  is  only  18  t 
per  100,000  of  the  })opulation,  which,  if  we  assume  that 
the  100,000  peojjle  rej)resent  ■20,000  families,  means  less 
than  one  per  cent  of  domestic  failures.  In  Japan  the 
rate  is  ^215,  which  is  said  to  be  tlie  highest  on  record. 
This  is  not  very  alarming:  what  is  quite  hideous  is  that 
the  rate  in  England  is  only  2,  a  figure  which,  if  we  as- 
sume that  human  nature  is  much  the  same  in  Walworth 
as  in  Washington,  must  represent  a  frightful  quantity 
of  useless  unhapjnness  and  clandestine  polygamy.  I  am 
not  forgetting  my  own  demonstration  that  the  rate  is 
kept  down  in  Washington  by  the  economic  slavery  of 
women;  but  I  must  point  out  that  this  is  at  its  worst  in 
the  middle  classes  only,  because  a  woman  of  the  working 
class  can  turn  to  and  support  herself,  however  poorly; 
and  a  M'oman  of  the  upper  classes  usually  has  some  prop- 
erty. And  in  all  classes  we  may  guess  that  the  object 
of  many  divorces  is  not  the  resumption  of  a  single  life, 
but  a  change  of  partners.  As  this  change  can  be  effected 
easily  under  the  existing  law  in  the  State  of  Washington 
it  is  net  certain  that  the  economic  emancipation  of  women 
would  alter  the  rate  there  to  any  startling  extent.  What 
is  certain  is  that  it  could  not  conceivably  raise  it  to  a 
figure  at  which  even  the  most  panicky  alarmist  could 
persuade  sensible  people  that  the  whole  social  fabric  was 
tumbling  to  pieces.  When  journalists  and  bishops  and 
American  Presidents  and  other  simple  people  describe 
this  Washington  result  as   alarming,  they   are   speaking 


186  Getting  Married 

as  a  peasant  speaks  of  a  motor  car  or  an  aeroplane  when 
he  sees  one  for  the  first  time.  All  he  means  is  tliat  he 
is  not  used  to  it  and  therefore  fears  that  it  may  injure 
him.  Every  advance  in  civilization  frightens  these  hon- 
est folk.  This  is  a  pity;  but  if  we  were  to  spare  their 
feelings  we  sliould  never  improve  the  world  at  all.  To 
let  them  frighten  us,  and  tlien  pretend  that  their  stupid 
timidity  is  virtue  and  i)urity  and  so  forth,  is  simply 
moral  cowardice, 

JNIale  Economic  Slavery  and  The  Rights  of 
Bachelors  ^ 

It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the  refusal  to  accept  the 
indignities,  risks,  liardships,  softsliips,  and  divided  du- 
ties of  marriage  is  not  confined  to  our  voluntary  old 
maids.  Tliere  are  men  of  the  mould  of  Beethoven  and 
Sanuul  Butler,  whom  one  can  hardly  conceive  as  mar- 
ried men.  There  are  the  great  ecclesiastics,  who  will 
not  own  two  loyalties:  one  to  the  Church  and  one  to  the 
hearth.  There  are  men  like  Goethe,  who  marry  late 
and  reluctantly  solely  because  tliey  feel  that  they  can- 
not in  honest  friendship  refuse  the  status  of  marriage 
to  any  woman  of  whose  attachment  to  them  they  have 
taken  any  compromizing  advantage,  either  in  fact  or  in 
appearance.  No  sensible  man  can,  under  existing  cir- 
cumstances, advise  a  woman  to  keep  house  with  a  man 
Avitliout  insisting  on  his  marrying  her,  unless  she  is  in- 
dependent of  conventional  society  (a  state  of  things 
which  can  occur  only  very  exceptionally)  ;  and  a  man 
of  honor  cannot  advise  a  woman  to  do  for  his  sake  what 
he  would  not  advise  her  to  do  for  anyone  else's.  The 
result  is  that  our  Beethovens  and  Butlers — of  whom,  in 
their  ordinary  human  aspect,  there  are  a  good  many — 
become  barren  old  bachelors,  and  rather  savage  ones  at 
that. 


Preface  187 

Another  difficulty  wliich  we  always  think  of  in  connec- 
tion with  women,  but  which  is  by  no  means  witliout  its 
application  to  men,  is  the  economic  one.  The  number  of 
men  who  cannot  afford  to  marry  is  large  enough  to  pro- 
duce very  serious  social  results;  and  the  higher  the  work 
the  man  is  doing,  the  more  likely  he  is  to  find  liimself 
in  this  class  until  lie  has  reached  or  passed  middle  age. 
The  higlier  departments  of  science,  law,  philosophy, 
poetry,  and  the  fine  arts  are  notoriously  starved  in  youth 
and  early  manhood:  the  marriageable  age  tliere,  econom- 
ically speaking,  is  nearer  fifty  than  twenty.  Even  in 
business  tlie  leading  spirits  seldom  reach  a  position  of 
security  until  they  are  far  beyond  the  age  at  which  cel- 
ibacy is  tolerable.  Account  must  also  be  taken  of  the 
younger  sons  of  the  propertied  classes,  brought  up  in 
households  in  which  the  rate  of  expenditure,  though  ten 
times  that  possible  on  a  younger  son's  portion,  yet  rep- 
resents the  only  habit  of  life  he  has  learnt. 

Taking  all  these  cases  as  representing  a  bachelor  class, 
and  bearing  in  mind  that  though  a  man  who  marries  at 
forty  is  not  called  a  bachelor,  yet  he  has  for  twenty  years 
of  his  adult  life  been  one,  and  therefore  produced  all  the 
social  problems  that  arise  out  of  the  existence  of  unmar- 
ried men,  we  must  not  shrink  from  asking  whether  all 
these  gentlemen  are  celibates,  even  though  we  know  that 
the  question  must  be  answered  very  emphatically  in  the 
negative.  Some  of  them  marry  women  of  property, 
thereby  reproducing  the  economic  dependence  of  women 
on  men  with  the  sexes  reversed.  But  there  are  so  few 
women  of  property  available  for  this  purpose  in  com- 
parison with  the  number  of  bachelors  who  cannot  afford 
to  marry,  that  this  resource  does  not  solve  the  problem 
of  the  bachelor  who  cannot  afford  a  wife.  If  there  were 
no  other  resources  available,  bachelors  would  make  love 
to  the  wives  and  daughters  of  their  friends.  This  being 
morally  inadmissible,  a  demand  arises  for  a  cheap  tern- 


188 


Getting  ^Married 


poran'  substitute  for  marriage.  A  class  of  women  must 
he  found  to  protect  the  wives  and  the  daugliters  of  the 
married  by  keeping  company  with  the  bachelors  for  hire 
for  as  long  or  as  short  a  time  as  the  bachelor  can  afford, 
on  the  understanding  that  no  claim  is  to  be  made  on  him 
after  the  hiring  is  ended.  And  such  an  institution,  as 
we  know,  exists  among  us.  It  is  commonly  spoken  of 
and  thought  of  as  an  offence  against  our  marriage  moral- 
ity; but  all  the  experts  who  write  scientific  treatises  on 
marriage  seem  to  be  agreed  that  it  is,  on  the  contrary,  a 
necessary  part  of  that  morality,  and  must  stand  and  fall 
with  it. 

I  do  not  myself  think  that  this  view  will  hear  exam- 
ination. In  my  play,  Mrs  Warr«n's  Profession,  I  have 
shewn  that  the  institution  in  question  is  an  economic 
))henomenon,  produced  by  our  underpayment  and  ill- 
treatment  of  women  who  try  to  earn  an  honest  living.  I 
am  aware  that  for  some  reason  scientific  writers  are  per- 
versely impatient  of  this  view,  and,  to  discredit  it,  quote 
police  lists  of  the  reasons  given  by  the  victims  for  adopt- 
ing their  trade,  and  insist  on  the  fact  that  poverty  is  not 
often  alleged.  But  this  means  only  that  the  actual  word 
is  seldom  used.  If  a  ]irisonful  of  thieves  were  asked 
what  induced  them  to  take  to  thieving,  and  some  replied 
Poverty,  and  others  Hunger,  and  others  Desire  for  Ex- 
citement, no  one  would  deny  that  the  three  answers  were 
really  one  answer — that  poverty  means  hunger,  an  in- 
tolerable lack  of  variety  and  pleasure,  and,  in  short,  all 
sorts  of  privations.  When  a  girl,  similarly  interro- 
gated, says  she  wanted  fine  clothes,  or  more  fun,  or  the 
like,  she  is  really  saying  that  she  lacked  what  no  woman 
with  plenty  of  money  need  lack.  The  fact  that,  accord- 
ing to  the  testimony  of  men  who  profess  experience  in 
such  matters,  you  may  search  Europe  in  vain  for  a 
woman  in  this  trade  who  has  the  table  manners  of  a  lady, 
shews  that  prostitution  is  not  a  vocation  but  a  slavery 


I 


Preface  189 

to  which  women  are  driven  by  the  miseries  of  honest 
poverty.  When  ever}'  young  woman  has  an  honorable 
and  comfortable  livelihood  open  to  her  on  reasonable 
terms,  the  streets  will  make  no  more  recruits.  When 
every  young  man  can  afford  to  marry,  and  marriage  re- 
form makes  it  easy  to  dissolve  unions  contracted  by 
young  and  inexperienced  people  in  the  event  of  their 
turning  out  badly,  or  of  one  of  the  pair  achieving  a  po- 
sition neither  comfortable  nor  suitable  for  the  other,  both 
prostitution  and  bachelordom  will  die  a  natural  death. 
Until  then,  all  talk  of  "  purification  "  is  idle.  It  is  for 
that  reason,  and  also  because  they  have  been  so  fully 
dealt  with  by  H.ivclock  Ellis  and  numerous  foreign  writ- 
ers on  the  psychology  and  ))hysiology  of  sex,  that  I  lay 
little  stress  on  prostitution  here. 

The  Pathology  of  ^larriage 

I  shall  also  say  as  little  as  possible  of  the  pathology 
of  marriage  and  its  kerbstone  breakwater.  Only,  as 
there  seems  to  be  no  bottom  to  the  abyss  of  public  ig- 
nor.-'.nce  on  the  subject,  I  am  compelled  to  warn  my  read- 
ers that  marriage  has  a  pathology  and  even  a  criminol- 
ogy. But  they  are  both  so  frightful  that  they  have  been 
dealt  with  not  only  in  such  treatises  as  those  of  Havelock, 
Ellis,  Fournier,  Duclaux,  and  many  German  writers,  but 
in  such  comparatively  popular  works  as  The  Heavenly 
Twins  by  Sarah  Grand,  and  several  of  the  plays  of 
Brieux:  notably  Les  Avaries,  Les  Trois  Filles  de  M. 
Dupont,  and  Maternite.  I  purposely  pass  them  by 
quickly,  not  only  because  attention  has  already  been 
called  to  them  by  these  devoted  writers,  but  because  my 
mission  is  not  to  deal  with  obvious  horrors,  but  to  open 
the  eyes  of  normal  respectable  men  to  evils  which  are 
escaping  their  consideration. 

As   to   the   evils   of   disease   and   contagion,   our   con- 


190  Getting  ^Married 

sciences  are  sound  enough :  what  is  wrong  with  us  is  ig- 
norance of  the  facts.  No  doubt  this  is  a  very  formidable 
ignorance  in  a  country  where  the  first  cry  of  the  soul  is 
"  Dont  tell  me:  I  dont  want  to  know,"  and  where  frantic 
denials  and  furious  suppressions  indicate  everj'where  the 
cowardice  and  want  of  faith  which  conceives  life  as 
sometliing  too  terrible  to  be  faced.  In  this  particular 
case  "  1  dont  want  to  know  "  takes  a  righteous  air,  and 
becomes  "  I  dont  want  to  know  anything  about  the  dis- 
eases which  are  the  just  punishment  of  wretches  who 
should  not  be  mentioned  in  my  presence  or  in  any  book 
tliat  is  intended  for  family  reading."  Wicked  and  fool- 
ish as  the  sjiirit  of  tliis  attitude  is,  the  practice  of  it  is 
so  easy  and  lazy  and  u])pi.sh  that  it  is  very  common. 
But  its  cry  is  drowned  by  a  louder  and  more  sincere  one. 
We  wlio  do  not  want  to  know  also  do  not  want  to  go 
blind,  to  go  mad,  to  be  disfigured,  to  be  barren,  to  be- 
come pestiferous,  or  to  see  such  things  happening  to  our 
children.  We  learn,  at  last,  that  the  majority  of  the 
victims  are  not  the  people  of  whom  we  so  glibly  say 
"  Serve  tliem  riglit,"  but  quite  innocent  children  and  in- 
nocent parents,  smitten  by  a  contagion  wliicli,  no  matter 
in  what  vice  it  may  or  may  not  have  originated,  con- 
taminates the  innocent  and  the  guilty  alike  once  it  is 
launched  exactly  as  any  other  contagious  disease  does; 
that  indeed  it  often  hits  the  innocent  and  misses  the 
guilty  because  the  guilty  know  the  danger  and  take 
elaborate  precautions  against  it,  whilst  the  innocent,  who 
have  been  either  carefully  kept  from  any  knowledge  of 
their  danger,  or  erroneously  led  to  believe  that  contagion 
is  possible  through  misconduct  only,  run  into  danger 
blindfold.  Once  knock  this  fact  into  people's  minds, 
and  their  self-righteous  indifference  and  intolerance  soon 
change  into  lively  concern  for  themselves  and  their  fam- 
ilies. 


Preface  191 

The  Criminology  of  ]Marriage 

The  pathology  of  marriage  involves  the  possibility  of 
the  most  horrible  crime  imaginable:  that  of  the  person 
who,  when  suffering  from  contagious  disease,  forces  the 
contagion  on  another  person  by  an  act  of  violence.  Such 
an  act  occurring  between  unmarried  people  would,  within 
the  memory  of  persons  now  living,  have  exposed  the  ag- 
gressor to  the  penalty  of  death;  and  it  is  still  punished 
unmercifully  by  an  extreme  term  of  penal  servitude 
when  it  occurs,  as  it  sometimes  does,  through  the  hideous 
countryside  superstition  that  it  effects  a  cure  when  the 
victim  is  a  virgin.  Marriage  makes  this  outrage  abso- 
lutely legal.  You  may  with  impunity  do  to  the  person 
to  whom  you  are  married  what  you  may  not  do  to  the 
most  despised  outcast  of  the  streets.  And  this  is  only 
the  extreme  instance  of  the  outlawry  which  our  marriage 
laws  effect.  In  our  anxiety  to  provide  for  ourselves  a 
little  private  Alsatia  in  which  we  can  indulge  ourselves 
as  we  please  without  reproach  or  interference  from  law, 
religion,  or  even  conscience  (and  this  is  what  marriage 
has  come  to  mean  to  many  of  lis),  we  have  forgotten  that 
we  cannot  escape  restraints  without  foregoing  rights; 
that  all  the  laws  that  are  needed  to  compel  strangers  to 
respect  us  are  equally  if  not  more  necessary  to  compel 
our  husbands  and  wives  to  respect  us ;  and  that  society 
without  law,  whether  between  two  or  two  million  per- 
sons, means  tyranny-  and  slavery. 

If  the  incorrigible  sentimentalists  here  raise  their  little 
pipe  of  "  Not  if  they  love  one  another,"  I  tell  them,  with 
such  patience  as  is  possible,  that  if  they  had  ever  had 
five  minutes  experience  of  love  they  would  know  that  love 
is  itself  a  tyranny  requiring  special  safeguards;  that 
people  will  perpetrate  "  for  the  sake  of  "  those  they  love, 
exactions  and  submissions  that  they  would  never  dream 
of  proposing  to  or  suffering  from  those  they  dislike  or 


192  Getting  ]Married 


o 


regard  with  indifference;  that  healthy  marriages  are 
partnerships  of  companionable  and  affectionate  friend- 
ship; that  cases  of  chronic  life-long  love,  whether  senti- 
mental or  sensual,  ought  to  be  sent  to  the  doctor  if  not 
to  the  executioner;  and  that  honorable  men  and  women, 
when  their  circumstances  permit  it,  are  so  far  from 
desiring  to  be  placed  helplessly  at  one  another's  mercy 
that  they  employ  every  device  the  law  now  admits  of, 
from  the  most  stringent  marriage  settlements  to  the  em- 
ployment of  separate  legal  advisers,  to  neutralize  the 
Alsatian  evils  of  the  marriage  law. 

Does  it  ^Matter? 

A  less  obviously  silly  evasion,  and  one  whieli  has  a 
greater  air  of  common  sense,  is  "  After  all,  seeing  that 
most  couples  get  on  very  well  together,  does  it  matter 
so  much?"  The  same  reply  might  be  made  by  a  lazy 
magistrate  when  asked  for  a  warrant  to  arrest  a  burglar, 
or  by  a  sleepy  fireman  wakened  by  a  midnight  call  for 
his  fire-escape.  "  After  all,  very  few  people  have  their 
houses  broken  intw;  and  fewer  still  have  them  burnt. 
Docs  it  matter?  "  But  tell  the  magistrate  or  fireman 
that  it  is  his  house  that  has  been  broken  into,  or  his  house 
that  has  been  burnt,  and  you  will  be  startled  by  the 
change  in  his  attitude.  Because  a  mass  of  people  have 
shaken  down  into  comfort  enough  to  satisfy  them,  or 
at  least  to  cause  them  no  more  discomfort  than  they  are 
prepared  to  put  up  with  for  the  sake  of  a  quiet  life,  less 
lucky  and  more  sensitive  and  conscientious  people  should 
not  be  condemned  to  expose  themselves  to  intolerable 
wrongs.  Besides,  people  ought  not  to  be  content  with 
the  marriage  law  as  it  is  merely  because  it  is  not  often 
\inbearably  uncomfortable.  Slaves  are  very  often  much 
more  comfortable  both  in  body  and  mind  than  fully  re- 
sponsible free  men.     That  does  not  excuse  anybody  for 


Preface  198 

embracing  slavery.  It  is  no  doubt  a  great  pity,  from 
many  points  of  view,  that  we  were  not  conquered  by 
Napoleon,  or  even  hy  Bismarck  and  Moltke.  None  the 
less  we  should  have  been  rightly  despised  if  we  had  not 
been  prepared  to  fight  them  for  the  right  to  misgovern 
ourselves. 

But,  as  I  have  said,  I  am  content,  in  this  matter  of 
the  evils  of  our  marriage  law,  to  take  care  of  the  {)ence 
and  let  the  pounds  take  care  of  themselves.  The  crimes 
and  diseases  of  marriage  will  force  themselves  on  public 
attention  by  their  own  virulence.  I  mention  them  here 
only  because  they  reveal  certain  habits  of  thought  and 
feeling  with  regard  to  marriage  of  which  we  must  rid 
ourselves  if  we  are  to  act  sensibly  when  we  take  tlic  nec- 
essary  reforms   in   hand. 

Christian  INIarriage 

First  among  these  is  the  habit  of  allowing  ourselves 
to  be  bound  not  only  by  the  truths  of  the  Christian  re- 
ligion but  by  the  excesses  and  extravagances  which  the 
Christian  movement  acquired  in  its  earlier  days  as  a  vio- 
lent reaction  against  w'lat  it  still  calls  paganism.  By  far 
the  most  dangerous  of  these,  because  it  is  a  blasphemy 
against  life,  and,  to  put  it  in  Christian  terms,  an  accusa- 
tion of  indecency  against  God,  is  the  notion  that  sex, 
with  all  its  operations,  is  in  itself  absolutely  an  obscene 
thing,  and  that  an  immaculate  conception  is  a  miracle. 
So  unwholesome  an  absurdity  could  only  have  gained 
ground  under  two  conditions :  one,  a  reaction  against  a 
society  in  which  sensual  luxury  had  been  carried  to  re- 
volting extremes,  and,  two,  a  belief  that  the  world  was 
coming  to  an  end,  and  that  therefore  sex  was  no  longer 
a  necessity.  Christianitj^,  because  it  began  under  these 
conditions,  made  sexlessness  and  Communism  the  two 
main   practical   articles   of   its    propaganda;   and   it   has 


194 


Getting  ^Married 


never  quite  lost  its  orifjinal  bins  in  these  directions.  In 
spite  of  the  putting  off  of  the  Second  Coming  from  the 
lifetime  of  the  apostles  to  the  millennium,  and  of  the 
great  disappointment  of  the  year  1000  a.d.,  in  which 
multitudes  of  Christians  seriously  prepared  for  the  end 
of  the  world,  the  prophet  who  announces  tliat  the  end  is 
at  hand  is  still  poj)ular.  Many  of  the  people  who  ridi- 
cule his  demonstrations  that  the  fantastic  monsters  of 
the  book  of  Revelation  are  among  us  in  the  persons  of 
our  own  political  contemporaries,  and  who  proceed  sanely 
in  all  their  affairs  on  the  assumption  that  the  world  is 
going  to  last,  really  do  believe  that  there  will  be  a  Judg- 
ment Day.  and  tliat  it  might  even  be  in  their  own  time. 
A  thunderstorm,  an  eclipse,  or  any  very  unusual  weather 
will    make    them    apprehensive    and    uncomfortable. 

This  explains  why,  for  a  long  time,  the  Christian 
Church  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  marriage. 
The  result  was,  not  the  abolition  of  sex,  but  its  excom- 
munication. And.  of  course,  the  consequences  of  per- 
suading j)eople  tliat  matrimony  was  an  unholy  state  were 
so  grossly  carnal,  that  the  Cluirch  had  to  execute  a  com- 
plete right-about-face,  and  try  to  make  people  under- 
stand that  it  was  a  holy  state:  so  holy  indeed  that  it  could 
not  be  validly  inaugurated  without  the  blessing  of  the 
Church.  And  by  this  teaching  it  did  something  to  atone 
for  its  earlier  blasphemy.  But  the  mischief  of  chopping 
and  changing  your  doctrine  to  meet  this  or  that  practical 
emergency  instead  of  keeping  it  adjusted  to  the  whole 
scheme  of  life,  is  that  you  end  by  having  half-a-dozen 
contradictory  doctrines  to  suit  half-a-dozen  different 
emergencies.  The  Church  solemnized  and  sanctified 
marriage  without  ever  giving  up  its  original  Pauline  doc- 
trine on  the  subject.  And  it  soon  fell  into  anotlier  con- 
fusion. At  the  point  at  which  it  took  up  marriage  and 
endeavored  to  make  it  holy,  marriage  was,  as  it  still  is, 
largely  a  survival  of  the  custom  of  selling  women  to  men. 


Preface  195 

Now  in  all  trades  a  marked  difference  is  made  in  price 
between  a  new  article  and  a  second-hand  one.  The 
moment  we  meet  with  this  difference  in  value  betwen  hu- 
man beings,  we  may  know  that  we  are  in  the  slave- 
market,  where  tlie  conccjjtion  of  our  relations  to  the  ))er- 
sons  sold  is  neither  religious  nor  natural  nor  human  nor 
sujjerhuman,  but  simply  commercial.  The  Church,  when 
it  finally  gave  its  blessing  to  marriage,  did  not,  in  its 
innocence,  fathom  these  commercial  traditions.  Conse- 
quently it  tried  to  sanctify  them  too,  with  grotesque  re- 
sults. The  slave-dealer  having  always  asked  more 
money  for  virginity,  the  Church,  instead  of  detecting  the 
money-changer  and  driving  him  out  of  the  temple,  took 
him  for  a  sentimental  and  chivalrous  lover,  and,  helped 
by  its  only  half-discarded  doctrine  of  celibacy,  gave  vir- 
ginity a  heavenly  value  to  ennoble  its  commercial  pre- 
tensions. In  short.  Mammon,  always  mighty,  put  the 
Church  in  his  pocket,  where  he  keeps  it  to  this  day,  in 
spite  of  the  occasional  saints  and  martyrs  who  contrive 
from  time  to  time  to  get  tlieir  heads  and  souls  free  to 
testify  against  him. 

Divorce  a  Sacramental  Duty 

But  Mammon  overreached  himself  when  he  tried  to 
impose  his  doctrine  of  inalienable  property  on  the 
Church  under  the  guise  of  indissoluble  marriage.  For 
the  Church  tried  to  shelter  this  inhuman  doctrine  and 
flat  contradiction  of  the  gospel  by  claiming,  and  rightly 
claiming,  that  marriage  is  a  sacrament.  So  it  is ;  but 
that  is  exactly  what  makes  divorce  a  duty  when  the  mar- 
riage has  lost  the  inward  and  spiritual  grace  of  which 
the  marriage  ceremony  is  the  outward  and  visible  sign. 
In  vain  do  bishops  stoop  to  pick  up  the  discarded  argu- 
ments of  the  atheists  of  fifty  years  ago  by  pleading  that 
the  words  of  Jesus  were  in  an  obscure  Aramaic  dialect. 


196  Getting  Married 

and  were  probably  misunderstood,  as  Jesus,  they  think, 
could  not  have  said  anything  a  bishop  would  disapprove 
of.  Unless  they  are  prepared  to  add  that  the  statement 
that  those  who  take  the  sacrament  with  their  lips  but  not 
with  their  hearts  eat  and  drink  their  own  damnation  is 
also  a  mistranslation  from  the  Aramaic,  they  are  most 
solemnly  bound  to  shirld  marri.ige  from  profanation,  not 
mertly  by  ])ermitting  divorce,  but  by  making  it  compul- 
sory in  certain  cases  as  the  Chinese  do. 

When  the  great  protest  of  the  XVI  century  came,  and 
the  Church  was  reformed  in  several  countries,  the 
Reformation  was  so  largely  a  rebellion  against  sacer- 
dotalism that  marriage  was  very  nearly  exoonununicated 
again:  our  modern  civil  marriage,  round  which  so  many 
fierce  controversies  and  political  conflicts  have  raged, 
would  have  been  thoroughly  apj)roved  of  by  Calvin,  and 
hailed  with  relief  by  Luther.  But  the  instinctive  doc- 
trine that  there  is  something  holy  and  mystic  in  sex,  a 
doctrine  which  many  of  us  now  easily  dissociate  from 
any  jiriestly  ceremony,  but  which  in  those  days  seemed 
to  all  who  felt  it  to  need  a  ritual  affirmation,  could  not 
be  thrown  on  the  scrap-heaj>  with  the  sale  of  Indulgences 
and  the  like;  and  so  the  Reformation  left  marriage  where 
it  was:  a  curious  mixture  of  commercial  sex  slavery, 
early  Christian  sex  abhorrence,  and  later  Christian  sex 
sanctification. 

Othello  and  Desdemona 

How  strong  was  the  feeling  that  a  husband  or  a  wife 
is  an  article  of  property,  greatly  depreciated  in  value  at 
second-hand,  and  not  to  be  used  or  touched  by  any  per- 
son but  the  proprietor,  may  be  learnt  from  Shakespear. 
His  most  infatuated  and  passionate  lovers  are  Antony 
and  Othello ;  yet  both  of  them  betray  the  commercial  and 
proprietary  instinct  the  moment  they  lose  their  tempers. 


Preface  197 

"  I  found  you,"  says  Antony,  reproaching  Cleopatra, 
"  as  a  morsel  cold  upon  dead  Caesar's  trencher."  Othel- 
lo's worst  agony  is  the  thought  of  "  keeping  a  corner  in 
tlie  thing  he  loves  for  otiiers'  uses."  But  this  is  not  what 
a  man  feels  about  the  thing  he  loves,  but  about  the  thing 
he  owns.  I  never  understood  the  full  significance  of 
Othello's  outburst  until  I  one  day  heard  a  lady,  in  the 
course  of  a  private  discussion  as  to  the  feasibility  of 
"  group  marriage,"  say  with  cold  disgust  that  she  would 
as  soon  think  of  lending  her  toothbrush  to  another 
woman  as  her  husband.  The  sense  of  outraged  manhood 
with  which  I  felt  myself  and  all  other  husbands  thus  re- 
duced to  the  rank  of  a  toilet  appliance  gave  me  a  very 
unpleasant  tnste  of  what  Desdcmona  might  have  felt  had 
she  overheard  Othello's  outburst.  I  was  so  dumfounded 
that  I  had  not  the  presence  of  mind  to  ask  the  lady 
whether  she  insisted  on  having  a  doctor,  a  nurse,  a  den- 
tist, and  even  a  priest  and  solicitor  all  to  herself  as  well. 
But  I  had  too  often  heard  men  speak  of  women  as  if 
they  were  mere  personal  conveniences  to  feel  surprised 
that  exactly  the  same  view  is  held,  only  more  fastidiously, 
by  women. 

All  these  views  must  be  got  rid  of  before  we  can  have 
any  healthy  public  opinion  (on  which  depends  our  hav- 
ing a  healthy  population)  on  the  subject  of  sex,  and  con- 
sequently of  m.Trringe.  Whilst  the  subject  is  considered 
shameful  and  sinful  we  shall  have  no  systematic  instruc- 
tion in  sexual  hygiene,  because  such  lectures  as  are  given 
in  Germany,  France,  and  even  prudish  America  (where 
the  great  Miltonic  tradition  in  this  matter  still  lives) 
will  be  considered  a  corruption  of  that  youthful  inno- 
cence which  now  subsists  on  nasty  stories  and  whispered 
traditions  handed  do^vn  from  generation  to  generation  of 
school-ch.ildren :  stories  and  traditions  which  conceal 
nothing  of  sex  but  its  dignity,  its  honor,  its  sacredness, 
its  rank  as  the  first  necessity  of  society  and  the  deepest 


198  Getting  Married 

concern  of  the  nation.  We  shall  continue  to  maintain 
the  WTiite  Slave  Trade  and  protect  its  exploiters  by,  on 
the  one  hand,  tolerating  the  white  slave  as  the  necessary 
breakwater  of  marriage;  and,  on  the  other,  trampling  on 
her  and  degrading  her  until  she  has  nothing  to  hope 
from  our  Courts ;  and  so,  with  policemen  at  every  corner, 
and  law  triumphant  all  over  Europe,  she  will  still  be 
smuggled  and  cattle-driven  from  one  end  of  the  civilized 
world  to  the  other,  cheated,  beaten,  bullied,  and  liunted 
into  the  streets  to  disgusting  overwork,  without  daring  to 
utter  the  cry  for  help  that  brings,  not  rescue,  but  expo- 
sure and  infamy,  yet  revenging  herself  terribly  in  the 
end  by  scattering  blindness  and  sterility,  pain  and  dis- 
figurement, insanity  and  death  among  us  with  the  cer- 
tainty tliat  we  are  much  too  pious  and  genteel  to  allow 
sueli  things  to  be  mentioned  with  a  view  to  saving  either 
her  or  ourselvis  from  them.  And  all  the  time  we  shall 
keep  enthusiastically  investing  her  trade  with  every  al- 
lurement that  the  art  of  the  novelist,  the  playwright,  the 
dancer,  the  milliner,  the  painter,  the  limelight  man,  and 
the  sentimental  poet  can  devize,  after  which  we  shall  con- 
tinue to  be  very  much  shocked  and  surprised  when  the 
cry  of  the  youth,  of  the  young  wife,  of  the  mother,  of 
the  infected  nurse,  and  of  all  the  other  victims,  direct 
and  indirect,  arises  with  its  invariable  refrain:  "Why 
did  nobody  warn  me.^  " 

What  is  to  become  of  the  Children? 

I  must  not  reply  flippantly.  Make  them  all  Wards  in 
Chancer}' ;  yet  that  would  be  enough  to  put  any  sensible 
person  on  the  track  of  the  reply.  One  would  think,  to 
hear  the  way  in  which  people  sometimes  ask  the  question, 
that  not  only  does  marriage  prevent  the  difficulty  from 
ever  arising,  but  that  nothing  except  divorce  can  ever 
raise  it.     It  is  true  that  if  you  divorce  the  parents^  the 


Preface  199 

children  have  to  be  disposed  of.  But  if  _vou  hang  the 
parents,  or  imprison  the  parents,  or  take  the  children  out 
of  the  custody  of  the  parents  because  they  hold  Shelley's 
opinions,  or  if  the  parents  die,  the  same  difficulty  arises. 
And  as  these  things  have  happened  again  and  again,  and 
as  we  have  had  plenty  of  experience  of  divorce  decrees 
and  separation  orders,  the  attempt  to  use  children  as  an 
obstacle  to  divorce  is  hardly  worth  arguing  with.  We 
shall  deal  with  the  children  just  as  we  should  deal  with 
them  if  their  homes  were  broken  up  by  any  other  cause. 
There  is  a  sense  in  which  children  are  a  real  obstacle  to 
divorce:  they  give  parents  a  common  interest  which 
keeps  together  many  a  couple  who,  if  childless,  would 
separate.  The  marriage  law  is  superfluous  in  such  cases. 
This  is  shewn  by  the  fact  that  the  proportion  of  childless 
divorces  is  much  larger  than  the  proportion  of  divorces 
from  all  causes.  But  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the 
interest  of  the  children  forms  one  of  the  most  powerful 
arguments  for  divorce.  An  unhappy  household  is  a  bad 
nurserj'.  There  is  something  to  be  said  for  the  J^olygy- 
nous  or  polyandrous  household  as  a  school  for  children : 
children  really  do  suffer  from  having  too  few  parents : 
this  is  why  uncles  and  aunts  and  tutors  and  governesses 
are  often  so  good  for  children.  But  it  is  just  the  po- 
lygamous household  which  our  marriage  law  allows  to 
be  broken  up,  and  which,  as  we  have  seen,  is  not  possi- 
ble as  a  tvpical  institution  in  a  democratic  country  where 
the  numbers  of  the  sexes  are  about  equal.  Therefore 
polygyny  and  polyandry  as  a  means  of  educating  children 
fall  to  the  ground,  and  with  them,  I  think,  must  go  the 
opinion  M'hich  has  been  expressed  by  Gladstone  and  oth- 
ers, that  an  extension  of  divorce,  whilst  admitting  many 
new  grounds  for  it,  might  exclude  the  ground  of  adultery. 
There  are,  however,  clearly  many  things  that  make  some 
of  our  domestic  interiors  little  private  hells  for  children 
(especially  when  the  children  are  quite  content  in  them) 


200  Getting  Married 

wliich  would  justify  any  intelligent  State  in  breaking  up 
the  home  and  giving  the  custody  of  the  children  either 
to  the  parent  whose  conscience  had  revolted  against  the 
corruption  of  the  children,  or  to  neither. 

Wliieli  brings  nie  to  the  point  that  divorce  should  no 
longer  he  confined  to  cases  in  which  one  of  the  parties 
])etitions  for  it.  If,  for  instance,  you  have  a  thoroughly 
rascally  couple  making  a  living  by  infamous  means  and 
bringing  up  their  children  to  their  trade,  the  king's 
])roctor,  instead  of  jiursuing  his  present  purely  mischiev- 
ous function  of  jireventing  couples  from  being  divorced 
by  proving  that  they  both  desire  it.  might  very  well  in- 
tervene and  divorce  tlu'sc  children  from  their  parents. 
At  ))res(nt,  if  the  Queen  herself  were  to  rescue  some  un- 
fortunate child  from  degradation  and  misery  and  ])lace 
her  in  a  respectable  home,  and  some  unmentionable  pair 
of  blackguards  claimed  the  child  and  proved  that  they 
were  its  father  and  mother,  the  child  would  be  given  to 
them  in  the  name  of  the  sanctity  of  the  home  and  the 
holiness  of  parentage,  after  perpetrating  which  crime, 
the  law  would  calmly  send  an  education  officer  to  take 
the  child  out  of  tlie  parents'  hands  several  hours  a  day 
in  the  still  more  sacred  name  of  compulsory  education. 
(Of  course  M-hat  would  really  happen  would  be  that  the 
couple  would  blackmail  the  Queen  for  their  consent  to 
the  salvation  of  the  child,  unless,  indeed,  a  hint  from  a 
police  ins])ector  convinced  them  that  bad  characters  can- 
not always  rely  on  pedantically  constitutional  treat- 
ment when  they  come  into  conflict  with  jiersons  in  high 
station). 

The  truth  is,  not  only  must  the  bond  between  man  and 
wife  be  made  subject  to  a  reasonable  consideration  of 
the  welfare  of  the  parties  concerned  and  of  the  commun- 
ity, but  the  whole  family  bond  as  well.  The  theory  that 
the  wife  is  the  property  of  the  husband  or  the  husband 
of  the  wife  is  not  a  whit  less  abhorrent  and  mischievous 


Preface  201 

than  the  theory  that  tlic  ehild  is  the  property  of  the  par 
ent.  Parental  bondaj^e  will  go  the  way  of  eonjugal 
bondage:  indeed  the  order  of  reform  should  rather  be 
put  the  other  way  about ;  for  the  helplessness  of  ehildren 
has  already  compelled  the  State  to  intervene  between 
parent  and  child  more  than  between  husband  and  wife. 
If  you  pay  less  than  .£40  a  year  rent,  you  will  sometimes 
feel  tempted  to  say  to  the  vaccination  officer,  the  school 
attendance  officer,  and  the  sanitary  inspector:  "Is  tliis 
child  mine  or  yours?  "  The  answer  is  that  as  the  child 
is  a  vital  j)art  of  the  nation,  the  nation  cannot  afford  to 
leave  it  at  the  irresponsible  disposal  of  any  individual  or 
couple  of  individuals  as  a  mere  small  parcel  of  private 
property.  The  only  solid  ground  that  the  parent  can 
take  is  that  as  the  State,  in  spite  of  its  imposing  name, 
can,  when  all  is  said,  do  nothing  with  the  ehild  except 
place  it  in  the  charge  of  some  human  being  or  another, 
the  parent  is  no  worse  a  custodian  than  a  stranger.  And 
though  this  proposition  maj'  seem  highly  questionable  at 
first  sight  to  those  who  imagine  that  only  parents  spoil 
children,  yet  those  who  realize  that  children  are  as  often 
spoilt  by  severity  and  coldness  as  by  indulgence,  and 
that  the  notion  that  natural  parents  are  any  worse  than 
adopted  parents  is  probably  as  complete  an  illusion  as 
the  notion  that  thev  are  any  better,  see  no  serious  likeli- 
hood that  State  action  will  detach  children  from  their 
parents  more  than  it  does  at  present :  nay,  it  is  even 
likely  that  the  present  system  of  taking  the  children  out 
of  the  parents'  hands  and  having  the  parental  duty  per- 
formed by  officials,  will,  as  poverty  and  ignorance  be- 
come the  exception  instead  of  the  rule,  give  way  to  the 
system  of  simply  requiring  certain  results,  beginning 
with  the  baby's  weight  and  ending  perhaps  with  some 
sort  of  practical  arts  degree,  but  leaving  parents  and 
children  to  achieve  the  results  as  they  best  may.  Such 
freedom  is,  of  course,  impossible  in  our  present  poverty- 


202  Getting  ^Married 

stricken  circumstances.  As  long  as  the  masses  of  our 
people  are  too  poor  to  be  good  parents  or  good  anything 
else  except  beasts  of  burden,  it  is  no  use  requiring  much 
more  from  them  but  hewing  of  wood  and  drawing  of 
water:  whatever  is  to  be  done  nmst  be  done  for  them, 
mostly,  alas  !  by  people  whose  superiority  is  merel}'  tech- 
nical. Until  we  abolish  poverty  it  is  imjjossible  to  push 
rational  nuasures  of  any  kind  very  far:  tiie  wolf  at  the 
door  will  compel  us  to  live  in  a  state  of  siege  and  to  do 
everything  by  a  bureaucratic  martial  law  that  would  be 
quite  unnecessary  and  indeed  intolerable  in  a  prosperous 
eonununity.  But  however  we  settle  the  question,  we 
must  make  the  j)areiit  justify  his  custody , of  the  child 
exactly  as  we  should  make  a  stranger  justify  it.  If  a 
family  is  not  achieving  the  purj)t)ses  of  a  famih-  it  should 
be  dissolved  just  as  a  marriagr  should  when  it,  too,  is 
not  achieving  the  purposes  of  marriage.  The  notion 
that  there  is  or  ever  can  be  anything  magical  and  inviol- 
able in  the  legal  relations  of  domesticity,  and  the  curious 
confusion  of  ideas  which  makes  some  of  our  bishops  im- 
agiiu'  that  in  the  phrase  "  Whom  Ciod  hath  joined,"  the 
word  (iod  means  the  district  registrar  or  the  Reverend 
.lohn  Smith  or  ^^'illiam  Jones,  must  be  got  rid  of.  Means 
of  breaking  up  undesirable  families  are  as  necessary  to 
the  preservation  of  the  family  as  means  of  dissolving  un- 
desirable marriages  are  to  the  preservation  of  marriage. 
If  our  domestic  laws  are  kept  so  inhuman  that  they  at 
last  provoke  a  furious  general  insurrection  against  them 
as  they  already  provoke  many  private  ones,  we  shall  in 
a  very  literal  sense  empty  the  baby  out  witli  the  bath  by 
abolishing  an  institution  which  needs  nothing  more  than 
a  little  obvious  and  easy  rationalizing  to  make  it  not  only 
harmless  but  comfortable,  honorable,  and  useful. 


Preface  203 

The  Cost  of  Divorce 

But  please  do  not  iin.-iginc  tlmt  the  evils  of  indissolu- 
ble marriage  can  be  cured  by  divorce  laws  administered 
on  our  present  plan.  The  very  cheapest  undefended  di- 
vorce, even  when  conducted  by  a  solicitor  for  its  own 
sake  and  that  of  humanity,  costs  at  least  £30  out-of- 
pocket  expenses.  To  a  client  on  business  terms  it  costs 
about  three  times  as  much.  Until  divorce  is  as  cheap  as 
marriage,  marriage  will  remain  indissoluble  for  all  ex- 
cept the  handful  of  people  to  whom  £lOO  is  a  ])roeurable 
sum.  For  the  enormous  majority  of  us  there  is  no  ditiVr- 
ence  in  this  respect  between  a  hundred  and  a  quadrillion. 
Divorce  is  the  one  thing  you  may  not  sue  for  in  forma 
pauperis. 

Let  me,  then,  recommend  as  follows : 

1.  Make  divorce  as  easy,  as  cheap,  and  as  private 
as  marriage. 

2.  Grant  divorce  at  the  request  of  either  party, 
whether  the  other  consents  or  not ;  and  admit  no  other 
ground  than  the  request,  which  should  be  made  without 
stating  any  reasons. 

3.  Confine  the  power  of  dissolving  marriage  for  mis- 
conduct to  the  State  acting  on  the  petition  of  the  king's 
proctor  or  other  suitable  functionary,  who  may,  however, 
be  moved  by  either  party  to  intervene  in  ordinary  request 
cases,  not  to  prevent  the  divorce  taking  place,  but  to  en- 
force alimony  if  it  be  refused  and  the  case  is  one  which 
needs  it. 

4.  Make  it  impossible  for  marriage  to  be  used  as  a 
punishment  as  it  is  at  present.  Send  the  husband  and 
wife  to  penal  servitude  if  you  disapprove  of  their  con- 
duct and  want  to  punish  them;  but  do  not  send  them  back 
to  perpetual  wedlock. 

5.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  think  a  couple  perfectly 
innocent  and  well  conducted,  do  not  condemn  them  also 


204  Getting  JSlarried 

to  perpetual  wedlock  against  their  wills,  thereby  making 
the  treatment  of  wliat  you  consider  innocence  on  both 
sides  the  same  as  the  treatment  of  wliat  you  consider 
guilt  on  both  sides. 

6.  Place  the  work  of  a  wife  and  mother  on  the  same 
footing  as  other  work:  that  is,  on  the  footing  of  labor 
"worthy  of  its  hire;  and  provide  for  unemphiynicnt  in  it 
exactly  as  for  unemployment  in  shii)buil(ling  or  any 
other  recognized  bread-winning  trade. 

7.  And  take  and  deal  with  all  the  consequences  of 
these  acts  of  justice  instead  of  letting  yourself  be  fright- 
ened out  of  reason  and  good  sense  by  fear  of  conse- 
quences. We  must  finally  adapt  our  institutions  to  hu- 
man nature.  In  the  hnig  run  our  present  plan  of  trying 
to  force  human  nature  into  a  moidd  of  existing  abuses, 
superstitions,  and  corrupt  interests,  produces  the  explo- 
sive forces  that  wreck  civilization. 

8.  Never  forget  that  if  you  leave  your  law  to  judges 
and  your  religion  to  bishops,  you  will  presently  find 
yourself  without  either  law  or  religion.  If  you  doubt 
this,  ask  any  decent  judge  or  bishop.  Do  not  ask  soiiic- 
body  who  does  not  know  what  a  judge  is,  or  what  a 
bishop  is,  or  what  the  law  is,  or  what  religion  is.  In 
other  words,  do  not  ask  your  newspaper.  Journalists  are 
too  jioorly  ])aid  in  this  country  to  know  anything  that  is 
fit  for  publication. 

Conclusions 

To  sum  up,  we  have  to  depend  on  the  solution  of  the 
problem  of  imemj>loyment,  probably  on  the  ])rinciplcs 
laid  down  in  the  Minority  Report  of  the  Royal  Commis- 
sion on  the  Poor  Law,  to  make  the  sexual  relations  be- 
tween men  and  women  decent  and  honorable  by  making 
women  economically  independent  of  men,  and  (in  the 
younger  son  section  of  the  upper  classes)  men  economi- 


Preface  205 

cally  independent  of  women.  We  also  have  to  bring  our- 
selves into  line  with  the  rest  of  Protestant  civilization  by 
providing  means  for  dissolving  all  unhappy,  improper, 
and  inconvenient  marriages.  And,  as  it  is  our  cautious 
custom  to  lag  behind  the  rest  of  the  world  to  see  how 
their  experiments  in  reform  turn  out  before  venturing 
ourselves,  and  then  take  advantage  of  their  experience 
to  get  ahead  of  them,  we  should  recognize  that  the  an- 
cient system  of  specifying  grounds  for  divorce,  such  as 
adultery,  cruelty,  drunkenness,  felony,  insanity,  va- 
grancy, neglect  to  provide  for  wife  and  children,  deser- 
tion, public  defamation,  violent  temper,  religious  hetero- 
doxy, contagious  disease,  outrages,  indignities,  personal 
abuse,  "  mental  anguish,"  conduct  rendering  life  burden- 
some and  so  forth  (all  these  are  examples  from  some 
code  actually  in  force  at  present),  is  a  mistake,  because 
the  only  effect  of  compelling  people  to  ])lead  and  prove 
misconduct  is  tliat  cases  are  manufactured  and  clean  linen 
purposely  smirched  and  washed  in  public,  to  the  great 
distress  and  disgrace  of  innocent  children  and  relatives, 
whilst  the  grounds  have  at  the  same  time  to  be  made  so 
general  that  any  sort  of  human  conduct  may  be  brouglit 
within  them  by  a  little  special  pleading  and  a  little  men- 
tal reservation  on  the  part  of  witnesses  examined  on  oath. 
When  it  comes  to  "  conduct  rendering  life  burdensome," 
it  is  clear  that  no  marriage  is  any  longer  indissoluble; 
and  the  sensible  thing  to  do  then  is  to  grant  divorce 
whenever  it  is  desired,  without  asking  why. 


.     GETTING   MARRIED 

On  a  fine  morning  in  the  spring  of  1908  the  Norman 
kitchen  in  the  Palace  of  the  Bishop  of  Chelsea  looks 
very  spacious  and  clean  and  handsome  and  healthy. 

The  Bishop  is  lucky  enough  to  have  a  XII  century 
palace.  The  palace  itself  has  been  lucky  enough  to  es- 
cape being  carved  up  into  XJ'  century  Gothic,  or  shaved 
into  XVIII  century  ashlar,  or  "  restored  "  by  a  XIX 
century  builder  and  a  Victorian  architect  with  a  deep 
sense  of  the  umbrella-like  gentlemanliness  of  XIV  cen- 
tury vaulting.  The  present  occupant,  A.  Chelsea,  un- 
officially Alfred  Bridgenorth,  appreciates  Norman  work. 
He  has,  by  adroit  complaints  of  the  discomfort  of  the 
place,  induced  the  Ecclesiastical  Commissioners  to  give 
him  some  money  to  spend  on  it;  and  with  this  he  has  got 
rid  of  the  wall  papers,  the  paint,  the  partitions,  the  ex- 
quisitely planed  and  moulded  casings  with  which  the 
Victorian  cabinetmakers  enclosed  and  hid  the  huge  black 
beams  of  hewn  oak,  and  of  all  other  expedients  of  his 
predecessors  to  make  themselves  feel  at  home  and  re- 
spectable in  a  Norman  fortress.  It  is  a  house  built  to 
last  for  ever.  The  walls  and  beams  are  big  enough  to 
carry  the  tower  of  Babel,  as  if  the  builders,  anticipating 
our  modern  ideas  and  instinctively  defying  them,  had  re- 
solved to  shew  how  much  material  they  could  lavish  on 
a  house  built  for  the  glory  of  God,  instead  of  keeping  a 

207 


208  Getting  ]Married      ^ 

competitive  eye  on  the  advantage  of  sending  in  the  lowest 
tender,  and  scientifically  calculating  how  little  material 
nould  be  enough  to  prevent  the  whole  affair  from  tum- 
bling down   by   its  own    weight. 

The  kitchen  is  the  Bishop's  favorite  room.  This  is  not 
at  all  because  he  is  a  man  of  humble  mind;  but  because 
the  kitchen  is  one  of  the  finest  rooms  in  the  house.  The 
Bishop  has  neither  the  income  nor  the  appetite  to  have 
his  cooking  done  there.  The  windows,  high  up  in  the 
ivall,  look  north  and  south.  The  north  window  is  the 
largest;  and  if  we  look  into  the  kitchen  through  'it  we  see 
facing  us  the  south  wall  with  small  Xorman  windows 
and  an  open  door  near  the  corner  to  the  left.  Through 
this  door  we  have  a  glimpse  of  the  garden,  and  of  a  gar- 
den chair  in  the  sunshine.  In  the  right-hand  corner  is  an 
entrance  to  a  vaulted  circular  chamber  with  a  winding 
stair  leading  up  through  a  tower  to  the  upper  floors  of 
the  palace.  In  the  wall  to  our  right  is  the  immense  fire- 
place, with  its  huge  spit  like  a  baby  crane,  and  a  collec- 
tion of  old  iron  and  brass  instruments  which  pass  as  the 
original  furniture  of  the  fire,  though  as  a  matter  of  fact 
they  have  been  picked  up  from  time  to  time  by  the 
Bishop  at  secondhand  shops.  In  the  near  end  of  the  left- 
hand  wall  a  small  Norman  door  gives  access  to  the  Bish- 
op's study,  formerly  a  scullery.  Further  along,  a  great 
oak  chest  stands  against  the  wall.  Across  the  middle  of 
the  kitchen  is  a  big  timber  table  surrounded  by  eleven 
stout  rush-bottomed  chairs:  four  on  the  far  side,  three 
on  the  near  side,  and  two  at  each  end.  There  is  a  big 
chair  with  railed  ba^k  and  sides  on  the  hearth.  On  the 
floor  is  a  drugget  of  thick  fibre  matting.  The  only  other 
piece  of  furniture  is  a  clock  with  a  wooden  dial  about  as 
large  as  the  bottom  of  a  washtub,  the  weights,  chains, 
and  pendidum  being  of  corresponding  magnitude;  but 
the  Bishop  has  long  since  abandoned  the  attempt  to  keep 
it  going.     It  hangs  above  the  oak  chest. 


Getting  ^Married  209 

The  kitchen  is  occupied  at  present  by  the  Bishop's 
lady,  Mrs  Bridgenorth,  who  is  talking  to  Mr  William 
Collins,  the  green-grocer.  He  is  in  evening  dress,  thotigh 
it  is  early  forenoon.  Mrs  Bridgenorth  is  a  quiet  happy- 
looking  rvoman  of  fifty  or  thereabouts,  placid,  gentle,  and 
humorous ,  with  delicate  features  and  fine  grey  hair  with 
many  white  threads.  She  is  dressed  as  for  some  festiv- 
ity; but  she  is  taking  things  easily  as  she  sits  iji  the  big 
chair  by  the  hearth,  reading  TJie  Times. 

Collins  is  an  elderly  man  with  a  rather  youthful  waist. 
His  muttonchop  wliiskers  have  a  coquettish  touch  of 
Dundreary  at  their  lower  ends.  He  is  an  affable  man, 
with  those  perfect  manners  which  can  be  acquired  only 
in  keeping  a  shop  for  the  sale  of  necessaries  of  life  to 
ladies  ivhose  social  position  is  so  unquestionable  that  they 
are  not  anxious  about  it.  He  is  a  reassuring  man,  with 
a  vigilant  grey  eye,  and  the  power  of  saying  anything  he 
likes  to  you  nitliout  offence,  because  his  tone  always  im- 
plies that  he  does  it  with  your  kind  permission.  JVithal 
by  no  means  servile:  rather  gallant  and  compassionate, 
but  never  without  a  conscientious  recognition,  on  public 
grounds,  of  social  distinctions.  He  is  at  the  oak  chest 
counting  a  pile  of  napkins. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth  reads  placidly:  Collins  counts:  a 
blackbird  sings  in  the  garden.  Mrs  Bridgenorth  puts 
The  Times  down  in  her  lap  and  considers  Collins  for  a 
moment. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  Do  you  never  feel  nervous  on 
these  occasions,  Collins  ? 

Collins.  Lord  bless  you,  no,  inaam.  It  would  be 
a  joke,  after  marrying  five  of  your  daughters,  if  I  was 
to  get  nervous  over  marrying  the  last  of  them. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  I  have  always  said  you  were  a 
wonderful  man,  Collins. 

Collins   [^almost  blushing~\      Oh,  maam! 


210  Getting  Married 

Mus  Bridgenorth.  Yes.  I  never  could  arrange 
anything — a  wedding  or  even  a  dinner — without  some 
Iiiteh  or  other. 

Collins.  Wliy  .should  you  give  yourself  tiie  trouble, 
maam.''  Send  for  the  greengrocer,  maam :  thats  the  secret 
of  easy  housekeeping.  Bless  you,  it's  his  business.  It 
pays  him  and  you,  let  alone  the  jileasure  in  a  house  like 
this  [Mrs  B r id £^e north  botrs  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
compliment].  They  joke  about  the  greengroeer.  just  as 
they  joke  about  the  mother-in-law.  But  they  cant  get 
on  without  both. 

Mrs  BRiDtiENoRTH.      What  a  bond  between  us,  Collins! 

Collins.  Bless  you,  maam,  thercs  all  sorts  of  bonds 
between  all  sorts  of  people.  You  are  a  very  affable  lady, 
maam,  for  a  Bishop's  lady.  I  have  known  Bisliop's  la- 
dies that  would  fairly  ])rov()ke  you  to  up  and  cheek  tliem; 
but  nobody  would  ever  forget  himself  ind  his  j)laee  with 
you.  maam. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  Collins:  you  are  a  flatterer. 
You  will  superintend  the  breakfast  yourself  as  usual,  of 
course,  wont  you  ? 

Collins.  Yes,  yes,  bless  you,  maam,  of  course.  I 
always  do.  Them  fashionable  caterers  send  down  such 
jieople  as  I  never  did  set  eyes  on.  Dukes  you  would  take 
them  for.  You  sec  the  relatives  shaking  hands  with 
them  and  asking  them  about  the  family — actually  ladies 
saying  "  ^^'here  have  we  met  before.''  "  and  all  sorts  of 
confusion.  Thats  my  secret  in  business,  maam.  You 
can  always  spot  me  as  the  greengrocer.  It's  a  fortune 
to  me  in  these  days,  when  you  cant  hardly  tell  who  any- 
one is  or  isnt.  [He  goes  out  through  the  totver,  and  im- 
mediately returns  for  a  moment  to  announce]  The  Gen- 
eral, maam. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth  rises  to  receive  her  brother-in-lan', 
rvho  enters  resplendent  in  full-dress  uniform,  rvith  many 
medals  and  orders.     General  Bridgenorth  is  a  well  set  up 


Getting  Married  211 

viaii  of  fifty,  with  large  brave  nostrils,  an  iron  mouth, 
faithful  dog's  eyes,  and  much  natural  simplicity  and  dig- 
nity of  character.  He  is  ignorant,  srupid,  and  preju- 
diced, having  been  carefully  trained  to  be  so;  and  it  is 
not  always  possible  to  be  patient  tvith  him  when  Iiis 
unquestionably  good  intentions  become  actively  mischiev- 
ous; but  one  blames  society,  not  himself,  for  this.  He 
would  be  no  worse  a  man  than  Collins,  had  he  enjoyed 
Collins's  social  opportunities.  He  comes  to  the  hearth, 
where  Mrs  Bridgenorth  is  standing  with  her  back  to  the 
fireplace. 

Mrs  Buidgexorth.  Good  morning.  Boxer.  [They 
shake  hands].  Another  niece  to  give  away.  This  is  the 
hist  of  them. 

The  General  [very  gloomy]  Yes,  Alice.  Nothing 
for  the  old  warrior  uncle  to  do  but  give  away  brides  to 
luckier  men  than  himself.  Has — [he  chokes]  has  your 
sister  come  yet  ? 

Mrs  Briugenorth.  Why  do  you  always  call  Lesbia 
my  sister?  Dont  you  know  that  it  annoys  her  more  than 
any  of  the  rest  of  your  tricks.'' 

The  General.  Tricks!  Ha!  Well,  I'll  try  to  break 
myself  of  it;  but  I  think  she  might  bear  with  me  in  a 
little  thing  like  that.  She  knows  that  her  name  sticks 
in  my  throat.  Better  call  her  your  sister  than  try  to  call 
her  L —  [he  almost  breaks  down]  L —  well,  call  her  by 
her  name  and  make  a  fool  of  mj'self  by  crying.  [He 
sits  down  at  the  near  end  of  the  table]. 

Mrs  Brihgenorth  [going  to  him  and  rallying  him] 
Oh  come,  Boxer !  Really,  really !  We  are  no  longer 
boys  and  girls.  You  cant  keep  up  a  broken  heart  all 
your  life.  It  must  be  nearly  twenty  years  since  she 
refused  you.  And  you  know  that  it's  not  because 
she  dislikes  you,  but  only  that  she's  not  a  marrying 
woman. 

The  General.     It's  no  use.     I  love  her  still.     And 


212  Getting  Married 

I  cant  liclp  telling  her  so  whenever  we  meet,  though  I 
know  it  makes  her  avoid  me.      [lie  all  but  weeps]. 

Mrs  Bhiugkxorth.  What  does  she  sav  when  vou 
tell   her? 

TiiK  CJKNKRAL.  Only  that  she  wonders  when  I  am 
going  to  grow  out  of  it.  I  know  now  that  I  shall  never 
grow  out  of  it. 

Mrs  Briugkxoutii.  Perhaps  you  would  if  you  mar- 
ried her.     I  believe  youre  better  as  you  are,  Boxer. 

Thk  Ciexer-xl.  I'm  a  miserable  man.  I'm  really 
sorry  to  be  a  ridiculous  old  bore,  Alice;  but  when  I  come 
to  this  house  for  a  wedding — to  these  scenes — to — to — 
recollections  of  the  past^-always  to  give*  the  bride  to 
somebody  else,  and  never  to  have  my  bride  given  to  me 
—  [he  rises  abruptly]  May  I  go  into  the  garden  and 
smoke  it  off? 

Mrs  BRinoEXORTH.      Do,  Boxer. 

Collins  returns  with  the  wedding  cake. 

Mrs  BRiixiEXORTH.  Oh,  lures  the  cake.  I  believe 
it's  the  same  one  we  had  for    Florence's  wedding. 

The  CiEXEHAL.  I  cant  bear  it  [he  hurries  out  through 
the  garden   door]. 

Collins  [putting  the  cake  on  the  table]  Well,  look 
at  that,  maam !  Aint  it  odd  that  after  all  the  weddings 
he's  given  away  at,  the  General  cant  stand  the  sight  of  a 
wedding  cake  yet.  It  always  seems  to  give  him  the  same 
shock. 

Mrs  Bridgexorth.  Well,  it's  his  last  shock.  You 
have  married  the  whole  family  now,  Collins.  [She  takes 
up   The  Times  again  and  resumes  her  seat]. 

Collins.  Except  your  sister,  maam.  A  fine  charac- 
ter of  a  lady,  maam,  is  Miss  Grantham.  I  have  an  ambi- 
tion to  arrange  her  wedding  breakfast. 

Mi!s   Bridgexorth.     She  wont  marry,  Collins. 

Collixs,  Bless  you,  maam,  they  all  say  that.  You 
and  me  said  it,  I'll  lay.     I  did,  anyhow. 


Getting  Married  213 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  No:  ni<arriage  can.e  natural  to 
me.      I  should  have  thought  it  did  to  you  too. 

Collins  [pensive]  No,  maaui:  it  didnt  come  natural. 
My  wife  had  to  break  me  into  it.  It  came  natural  to 
her:  she's  what  you  might  call  a  regular  old  hen.  Alwaj'^s 
wants  to  have  her  family  within  sight  of  licr.  Wouldnt 
go  to  bid  unless  she  knew  the}'  was  all  safe  at  home  and 
the  door  locked,  and  the  lights  out.  Always  wants  her 
luggage  in  the  carriage  with  her.  Always  goes  and 
makes  the  engine  driver  promise  her  to  be  careful.  She's 
a  born  wife  and  mother,  maam.  Thats  why  my  children 
all  ran  away  from  home. 

Mils  Briugen'orth,  Did  you  ever  feel  inclined  to  run 
away,  Collins .'' 

Collins.  Oh  yes,  maam,  yes:  very  often.  But  when 
it  came  to  the  point  I  couldnt  bear  to  hurt  her  feelings. 
Shes  a  sensitive,  atfectionatc,  anxious  soul;  and  she  was 
never  brought  up  to  know  what  freedom  is  to  some  peo- 
ple. You  see,  family  life  is  all  the  life  she  knows:  she's 
like  a  bird  born  in  a  cage,  that  would  die  if  you  let  it 
loose  in  the  woods.  When  I  thought  how  little  it  was 
to  a  man  of  my  easy  temper  to  put  up  with  her,  and  how 
deep  it  would  hurt  her  to  think  it  was  because  I  didnt 
care  for  her,  I  always  put  off  running  away  till  next 
time;  and  so  in  the  end  I  never  ran  away  at  all.  I  dare- 
say it  was  good  for  me  to  be  took  such  care  of;  but  it 
cut  me  off  from  all  my  old  friends  something  dreadful, 
maam:  especially  the  women,  maam.  She  never  gave 
them  a  chance :  she  didnt  indeed.  She  never  understood 
thit  married  people  should  take  holidays  from  one  an- 
other if  they  are  to  keep  at  all  fresh.  Not  that  I  ever 
got  tired  of  her,  maam ;  but  my !  how  I  used  to  get  tired 
of  home  life  sometimes.  I  used  to  catch  myself  envying 
my  brother  George:  I  positively  did,  maam. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  George  was  a  bachelor  then,  I 
suppose .'' 


214  Getting  Married 

Collins.  Bless  3'ou,  no,  maam.  He  married  a  very 
fine  figure  cf  a  woman  ;  but  she  was  that  ehangeable  and 
what  you  might  eall  suseeptible,  you  would  not  believe. 
She  didnt  seem  to  have  any  control  over  herself  when  she 
fell  in  love.  She  would  mope  for  a  couple  of  days,  cry- 
ing about  nothing;  and  then  she  would  up  and  say — no 
matter  who  was  there  to  hear  her — "  I  must  go  to  him, 
George";  and  away  she  would  go  from  her  home  and 
her  husband  without  witli-your-leave  or  by-your-leave. 

Mrs  BKiDiiENoRTii.  But  do  you  mean  that  she  did 
this  more  than  once.''     That  she  came  back? 

Collins.  Bless  you,  maam,  she  done  it  five  times  to 
my  own  knowledge;  and  then  George  gave,up  telling  us 
about  it,  he  got  so  used  to  it. 

Mhs  Bniu(;KNO!JTii.     But  did  he  always  take  her  back? 

Collins.  Well,  what  euuld  he  do,  maam?  Three 
times  out  of  four  the  men  would  bring  her  back  the  same 
evening  and  no  harm  done.  Other  times  theyd  run  away 
from  her.  ^^'hat  could  any  man  Avith  a  heart  do  but  com- 
fort her  wlun  she  came  back  crying  at  the  way  they 
dodgfd  lu-r  when  she  threw  herself  at  their  heads,  pre- 
tending they  was  too  noble  to  accept  the  sacrifice  she 
was  making.  George  told  her  again  and  again  that  if 
she'd  only  stay  at  home  and  hold  off  a  bit  theyd 
be  at  her  feet  all  day  long.  She  got  sensible  at  last 
and  took  liis  advice.  George  always  liked  change  of 
company. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  \Miat  an  odious  woman,  Col- 
lins!    Dont  you  think  so? 

Collins  [judicially]  Well,  many  ladies  with  a  do- 
mestic turn  thought  so  and  said  so,  maam.  But  I  will 
say  for  Mrs  George  that  the  variety  of  experience  made 
her  wonderful  interesting.  Thats  where  the  flighty  ones 
score  off  the  steady  ones,  maam.  Look  at  my  old 
woman  !  She's  never  known  any  man  but  me ;  and  she 
cant   properly  know  me,  because   she   dont  know   other 


Getting  Married  215 

men  to  compare  mc  with.  Of  course  she  knows  her  par- 
ents in — well,  in  the  way  one  does  know  one's  parents : 
not  knowing  half  their  lives  as  you  might  say,  or  ever 
thinking  that  they  was  ever  young;  and  she  knew  her 
cliildrcn  as  cliildren,  and  never  thought  of  them  as  inde- 
pendent human  beings  till  they  ran  away  and  nigh  broke 
her  heart  for  a  week  or  two.  But  Mrs  George  she  came 
to  know  a  lot  about  men  of  all  sorts  and  ages ;  for  the 
older  siie  got  the  younger  she  liked  era;  and  it  certainly 
made  her  interesting,  and  gave  her  a  lot  of  sense.  I  have 
often  taken  her  advice  on  things  when  my  own  poor  old 
woman  wouldnt  have  been  a  bit  of  use  to  me. 

Mrs  Buidgenorth.  I  hope  you  dont  tell  your  wife 
that  you  go  elsewhere  for  advice. 

CoLMNs.      Lord  bless  you,  niaam,  I'm  that  fond  of  m}' 
old  Matilda  that  I  never  tell  her  an\i:hing  at  all  for  fear 
of  hurting  her  feelings.     You  see,  she's  such  an  out-and-' 
out  wife  and  mother  that  she's  hardly  a  responsible  hu- 
man being  out  of  her  house,  except  when  she's  marketing. 

Mrs  Bridgenohth.  Does  she  approve  of  Mrs 
George .'' 

Collins.  Oh,  Mrs  George  gets  round  her.  Mrs 
George  can  get  round  anybody  if  she  wants  to.  And 
then  Mrs  George  is  very  particular  about  religion.  And 
shes  a  clairvoj'ant. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth   \ surprised]      A  clairvoyant! 

Collins  [raZ?;*]  Oh  yes,  maam,  yes.  All  3'ou  have 
to  do  is  to  mesmerize  her  a  bit;  and  off  she  goes  into  a 
trance,  and  says  the  most  wonderful  things !  not  things 
about  lierself,  but  as  if  it  was  the  whole  human  race  giv- 
ing 3-ou  a  bit  of  its  mind.  Oh,  wonderful,  maam,  I 
assure  you.  You  couldnt  think  of  a  game  that  Mrs 
George  isnt  up  to. 

Lesbia  Grantham  conies  in  through  the  torver.  She  is 
a  tall,  handsome,  slender  lady  in  her  prime:  that  is,  be- 
tween 36  and  55.    She  has  what  is  called  a  well-bred  air. 


2ir,  Getting  :Married 


t5 


dressing  very  carefnllif  to  produce  that  effect  without 
the  least  regard  for  the  latest  fashions,  sure  of  herself, 
very  terrifying  to  the  young  and  shy,  fastidious  to  the 
ends  of  her  long  finger-tips,  and  tolerant  and  amused 
rather  than  sympathetic. 

I.KsniA.      (i<K)d  inorniiiff,  dear  big  sister. 

Mus  Biuu(;exorth.  Good  morning,  dear  little  sister. 
\They  kiss^. 

Lesbia.  Good  morning,  Collins.  How  well  you  are 
looking!  And  how  young!  \She  turns  the  middle  chair 
an- ay  from  the  table  and  sits  down], 

Collins.  Thats  only  my  professional  habit  at  a  wed- 
ding. Miss.  You  should  see  me  at  a  political  dinner. 
I  look  nigh  seventy.  [Looking  at  his  rratch]  Time's 
getting  .'ilong,  maam.  May  I  send  up  word  from  you 
to  Miss  Edith  to  hurry  a  bit  witli  her  dressing.'' 

Mrs   Bridgenortii.      Do,  Collins. 

Collins  goes  out  through  the  toner,  taking  the  cake 
tvith  him. 

Lesbia.  Dear  old  Collins!  Has  he  told  you  any 
stories  this  morning? 

Mrs  Bridcenorth.  Yes.  You  were  just  late  for  a 
particularly    thrilling   invention    of    his. 

Lesbia.     About  Mrs  George? 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  Yes.  He  says  she's  a  clair- 
voyant. 

Lesbia.  T  wonder  whether  he  really  invented  Mrs 
George,  or  stole  her  out  of  some  book, 

Mrs   Briihjenorth.      I   wonder! 

Lesbia.     Wheres  the   Barmecide? 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  In  the  study,  working  away  at 
his  new  book.  He  thinks  no  more  now  of  having  a 
daughter  married  than  of  having  an  egg  for  breakfas^. 

The  General,  soothed  by  smoking,  comes  in  from  the 
garden. 

The  General  [with  resolute  bonhomie]     Ah,  Lesbia! 


Getting  Married  217 

How  do  A'ou  do?  \They  shake  hands;  and  he  takes  the 
chair  on  her  right^. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth  goes  out   through  the  ton'er. 

Lesbia.  How  arc  you,  Boxer?  You  look  almost  as 
gorgeous  as  the  wedding  cake. 

The  General.  I  xuake  a  point  of  appearing  in  uni- 
form wlienever  I  take  part  in  any  ceremony,  as  a  lesson 
to  the  subalterns.  It  is  not  the  custom  in  England;  but 
it  ought  to  be. 

Lesbia,  You  look  very  fine.  Boxer.  What  a  frightful 
lot  of  bravery  all  these  medals  must  represent ! 

The  General.  No,  Lesbia.  They  represent  despair 
and  cowardice.  I  won  all  the  early  ones  by  trying  to  get 
killed.     You  know  wliy. 

Lesbia.     But  you  had  a  charmed  life? 

The  General.  Yes,  a  charmed  life.  Bayonets  bent 
on  my  buckles.  Bullets  passed  through  me  and  left  no 
trace:  thats  the  worst  of  modern  bullets:  Ive  never  been 
hit  by  a  dum-duni.  When  I  was  only  a  company  officer 
I  had  at  least  the  right  to  expose  myself  to  deatli  in  the 
field.  Now  I'm  a  General  even  that  resource  is  cut  off. 
[Persuasively  dran-ing  his  chair  nearer  to  her^  Listen 
to  me,  Lesbia.     For  the  tenth  and  last  time — 

Lesbia  [interrupting^  On  Florence's  wedding  morn- 
ing, two  years  ago,  you  said  "  For  the  ninth  and  last 
time." 

The  General,  We  are  two  years  older,  Lesbia.  I'm 
fifty:  you  are — 

Lesbia.  Yes,  I  know.  It's  no  use,  Boxer.  W^hen 
will  you  be  old  enough  to  take  no  for  an  answer? 

The  General.  Never,  Lesbia,  never.  You  have 
never  given  me  a  real  reason  for  refusing  me  yet.  I  once 
thought  it  was  somebody  else.  There  were  lots  of  fel- 
lows after  you ;  but  now  theyve  all  given  it  up  and  mar- 
ried. [Bending  still  nearer  to  her]  Lesbia:  tell  me 
your  secret.     Why — 


218  Getting  Married 

Lesbia  [sniffing  disgustedly]  Oh!  Youve  been  smok- 
ing. [She  rises  and  goes  to  the  chair  on  the  hearth] 
Keep  away,  you  wretch. 

The  General.  But  for  that  pip*-',  I  could  not  have 
faced  you  witliout  breaking  down.  It  lias  soothed  me 
and  nerved  \nv. 

Lesbia  [sitting  down  with  The  Times  in  Iter  liand] 
Well,  it  has  nerved  me  to  tell  you  why  I'm  going  to  be 
an  old  maid. 

The  Genekal  [inipulsiielij  approaching  her]  Dont 
say  that,  Lesbia.  It's  not  natural:  it's  not  right: 
it's — 

Lesbia  \  fanning  Jiim  off]  No:  no  alost  r.  Boxer, 
please.  [ //r  retreats,  discouraged].  It  may  not  be  nat- 
ural ;  but  it  hapjiens  all  the  time.  YouU  find  plenty  of 
women  like  me,  if  you  care  to  look  for  them:  women  with 
lots  of  character  and  good  looks  and  money  and  offers, 
who  wont  and  dont  get  married.     Cant  you  guess  why? 

The  General.  I  can  understand  wlien  there  is 
another. 

Lesbia.  Yes;  but  there  isnt  another.  Besides,  do  you 
suppose  I  think,  at  my  time  of  life,  that  the  difference 
between  one  decent  sort  of  man  and  another  is  worth 
bothering  about.'* 

The  General.  The  heart  has  its  preferences,  Lesbia. 
One  image,  and  one  only,  gets  indelibly — 

Lesbia.  Yes.  Excuse  my  interrupting  you  so  often; 
but  your  sentiments  are  so  correct  that  I  always  know 
what  you  are  going  to  say  before  you  finish.  You  see. 
Boxer,  everybody  is  not  like  you.  You  are  a  sentimental 
noodle:  you  dont  see  women  as  they  really  are.  You 
dont  see  me  as  I  really  am.  Now  I  do  see  men  as  they 
really  are.     I  see  you  as  you  really  are. 

The  General  [murmuring]  No:  dont  say  that, 
Lesbia. 

Lesbia.     I'm  a  regular  old  maid.     I'm  very  particular 


Getting  JMarried  219 

about  ray  belongings.  I  like  to  have  my  own  house,  and 
to  have  it  to  myself.  I  have  a  very  keen  sense  of  beauty 
and  fitness  and  cleanliness  and  order.  I  am  proud  of  ni}' 
inde])endence  and  jealous  for  it.  I  have  a  surticiently 
well-stocked  mind  to  be  very  good  company  for  myself 
if  I  have  plenty  of  books  and  music.  The  one  thing  I 
never  could  stand  is  a  great  lout  of  a  man  smoking  all 
over  my  house  and  going  to  sleep  in  his  chair  after  din- 
ner, and  untidying  everything.     Ugh  ! 

The  General.     But  love  — 

Lesbia.  Oh,  love!  Have  you  no  imagination.^  Do 
you  think  I  have  never  been  in  love  witli  wonderful  men? 
heroes!  areliangels !  princes!  sages!  even  fascinating  ras- 
cals !  and  had  the  strangest  adventures  with  them .''  Do 
you  know  what  it  is  to  look  at  a  mere  real  man  after 
that?  a  man  with  his  boots  in  every  corner,  and  the  smell 
of  his  tobacco  in  every  curtain  ? 

The  General  [somewhat  da::ed]  Well  but — excuse 
my  mentioning  it — dont  you  want  children  ? 

Lesbia.  I  ought  to  have  children.  I  should  be  a 
good  mother  to  children.  I  believe  it  would  pay  the 
country  very  well  to  pay  me  very  well  to  have  children. 
But  the  country  tells  me  that  I  cant  have  a  child  in  my 
house  without  a  man  in  it  too;  so  I  tell  the  country  that 
it  will  have  to  do  without  my  children.  If  I  am  to  be  a 
mother,  I  really  cannot  have  a  man  bothering  me  to  be 
a  wife  at  the  same  time. 

The  General.  My  dear  Lesbia:  you  know  I  dont 
wish  to  be  impertinent ;  but  these  are  not  the  correct 
views  for  an  English  lady  to  express. 

Lesbia.  That  is  why  I  dont  express  them,  except  to 
gentlemen  who  wont  take  any  other  answer.  The  diffi- 
culty, you  see,  is  that  I  really  am  an  English  lady,  and 
am  particularly  proud  of  being  one. 

The  General.  I'm  sure  of  that,  Lesbia:  quite  sure 
of  it.     I  never  meant — 


220  Getting  Married 

Lesbia  [risint;:  impafientli/]  Oil,  niv  dear  Boxer,  do 
please  try  to  think  of  .something  else  than  whether  yea 
have  oifended  me,  and  whether  you  are  doing  the  correct 
thing  as  an  English  gentleman.  You  are  faultless,  and 
very  dull.  \  She  shakes  her  shoulders  mtolerantly  unci 
walks  across  to  the  other  side  of  the  kitchen]. 

The  Gkxkral  [moodily]  Ha!  thats  whits  tlie  matter 
with  me.      Not  clever.     A  poor  silly  soldirr  man. 

Lesbia.  The  whole  matter  is  very  simple.  As  I  say, 
I  am  an  English  lady,  by  which  I  menn  that  I  have  been 
trained  to  do  without  what  I  cant  have  on  honorable 
terms,  no  matter  what  it  is. 

The  General.      I  really  dont  understand* you,  Lesbia. 

Lesbia  {turning  on  him]  Then  why  on  earth  do  you 
want  to  marry  a  woman  you  dont  understand? 

The  Genehai..      I  dont  know.      I  suppose  I  love  you. 

Lesbia.  Well,  Boxer,  you  can  love  me  as  much  as 
you  like,  provided  you  look  happy  al)Out  it  and  dont  bore 
me.     But  you  cant  marry  me ;  and  thats  all  about  it. 

The  Genekal.  It's  so  frightfully  difficult  to  argue 
the  matter  fairly  with  you  without  M-ounding  your  del- 
icacy by  overstt-pjiing  the  bounds  of  good  taste.  But 
surely  there  are  calls  of  nature — 

Lesbia.      Dont  be  ridiculous.  Boxer. 

The  General.  Well,  how  am  I  to  express  it?  Hang 
it  all,   Lesbia,  dont  you  want   a  husband? 

Lesbia.  No.  I  want  children ;  and  I  want  to  devote 
mvself  entirely  to  my  children,  and  not  to  their  father. 
The  law  will  not  .'illow  me  to  do  that ;  so  I  have  made  up 
mv   mind   to   have   neither    husband    nor   children. 

The  General.  But,  great  Heavens,  the  natural  ap- 
j)etites — 

Lesbia.  As  I  said  before,  an  English  lady  is  not  the 
slave  of  her  appetites.  That  is  what  an  English  gentle- 
man seems  incapable  of  xinderstanding.  [She  sits  dorvn 
at  the  end  of  the  table,  near  the  study  door]. 


Getting  iNIarried  221 

The  General  [huffily]  Oh  wt-ll,  if  you  refuse,  you 
refuse.  I  shall  not  ask  you  again.  I'm  sorry  I  returned 
to  the  subject.  \IIe  retires  to  the  hearth  and  plants 
himself  there,  wounded  and  lofty]. 

Lesbia.     Dont  be  cross.  Boxer. 

The  General.  I'm  not  cross,  only  wounded,  Lesbia. 
And  when  you  talk  like  tliat,  I  dont  feel  convinced :  I 
only  feel  utterly  at  a  loss. 

Lesbia.  Well,  you  know  our  family  rule.  When  at  a 
loss  consult  the  greengrocer.  [Opportunely  Collins 
comes  in  through  the  tower].     Here  he  is. 

Collins.  Sorry  to  be  so  much  in  and  out,  Miss.  I 
thought  Mrs  Bridgenorth  was  here.  The  table  is  ready 
now  for  the  breakfast,  if  she  would  like  to  see  it. 

Lesbia.  If  you  are  satisfied,  Collins,  I  am  sure  she 
will  be. 

The  General.  By  the  way,  Collins:  I  tliought 
theyd  made  you  an  alderman. 

Collins.      So  they  have.  General. 

The  General.     Then  whcres  your  gown? 

Collins.      I  dont  wear  it  in  private  life,  General. 

The  General.     Why?     Are  you  ashamed  of  it? 

Collins.  No,  General.  To  tell  you  the  trutli,  I  take 
a  pride  in  it.     I  cant  help  it. 

The  General.  Attention,  Collins.  Come  here. 
[Collins  comes  to  him].  Do  you  see  ray  uniform — all 
my  medals  ? 

Collins.  Yes,  General.  They  strike  the  eye,  as  it 
were. 

The  General.  They  are  meant  to.  Very  well. 
Now  you  know,  dont  you,  that  your  services  to  the  com- 
munity as  a  greengrocer  are  as  important  and  as  digni- 
fied as  mine  as  a  soldier? 

Collins.  I'm  sure  it's  very  honorable  of  you  to  say 
so.  General. 

The  General   [emphatically]      You  know  also,  dont 


222  Getting  Married 

you,  that  any  man  wlio  can  see  anything  ridiculous,  or 
unmanly,  or  unbecoming  in  your  work  or  in  your  civic 
robes  is  not  a  gentleman,  but  a  jumping,  bounding,  snort- 
ing cad  ? 

Collins.  Well,  strictly  between  ourselves,  tliat  is  ray 
opinion.  General. 

The  General.  Then  why  not  dignify  my  niece's 
wedding  by  wearing  your  robes.'' 

Collins.  A  bargain's  a  bargain.  General.  Mrs 
Bridgenorth  sent  for  the  greengrocer,  not  for  the  alder- 
man. It's  just  as  unpleasant  to  get  more  than  you  bar- 
gain for  as  to  get  less. 

The  General,  ^'m  sure  she  will  agret  with  me.  I 
attach  importance  to  this  as  an  affirmation  of  solidarity 
in  the  service  of  the  community.  The  Bishop's  apron, 
my  uniform,  your  robes:  the  Church,  the  Army,  and  the 
Munieij)ality. 

Collins  {retiriui;]  Very  wtll.  General.  \IIe  turns 
dnh'toushi  to  Lc.shia  on  his  no  if  to  the  ton'er\.  I  wonder 
what  my  wift-  will  say.  Miss.^ 

The  General.  What !  Is  your  wife  ashamed  of 
your  robes? 

Collins.  No,  sir.  not  ashamed  of  them.  But  she 
grudged  the  money  for  them;  and  she  will  he  afraid  of 
my  sleeves  getting  into  the  gravy. 

3/r*  Bridi^enorth,  her  placiditi/  quite  upset,  comes  in 
n'ith  a  letter;  hurries  past  Collins;  and  comes  betn'een 
Lesbia  and  the  General. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  Lesbia:  Boxer:  heres  a  pretty 
mess ! 

Collins  sroes  out  discreetly. 

The  General.     Whats  the  matter? 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  Reginald's  in  London,  and  wants 
to  come  to  the  wedding. 

The  General   [stupended]      Well,  dash  my  buttons! 

Lesbia.     Oh,  all  right,  let  him  come. 


Getting  Married  223 


't5 


The  General.  Let  him  come !  Why,  the  decrco  has 
not  been  made  absolute  yet.  Is  he  to  walk  in  here  to 
Edith's  wedding,  reeking  from  the  Divorce  Court.'' 

Mrs  Briugenortii  [vexedly  sitting  down  in  the  mid- 
dle chair]  It's  too  bad.  No:  I  cant  forgive  him,  Les- 
bin,  really.  A  man  of  Reginald's  age,  with  a  young  wife 
— the  best  of  girls,  and  as  pretty  as  she  can  be — to  go 
off  with  a  common  woman  from  the  streets !     Ugh ! 

Lesbia.  You  must  make  allowances.  What  can  you 
expect.^  Reginald  was  always  weak.  He  was  brouglit 
up  to  be  weak.  The  family  j)roperty  was  all  mortgaged 
when  he  inherited  it.  He  had  to  struggle  along  in  con- 
stant money  difficulties,  hustled  by  his  solicitors,  morally 
bullied  by  the  Barmecide,  and  physically  bullied  by 
Boxer,  while  they  two  were  fighting  their  own  way  and 
getting  well  trained.  You  know  very  well  he  couldnt 
afford  to  marry  until  the  mortgages  were  cleared  and  he 
was  over  fifty.  And  then  of  course  he  made  a  fool  of 
himself  marrying  a  child  like  Leo. 

The  General.  But  to  hit  her  I  Absolutely  to  hit 
her !  He  knocked  her  down — knocked  her  flat  down  on 
a  flowerbed  in  the  presence  of  his  gardener.  He !  the 
head  of  the  family !  the  man  that  stands  before  the 
Barmecide  and  myself  as  Bridgenorth  of  Bridgenorth ! 
to  beat  his  wife  and  go  off  with  a  low  woman  and  be 
divorced  for  it  in  the  face  of  all  England  I  in  the  face  of 
my  uniform  and  Alfred's  apron!  I  can  never  forget 
what  I  felt:  it  was  only  the  King's  personal  request — 
virtually  a  command — that  stopped  me  from  resigning 
my  commission.  I'd  cut  Reginald  dead  if  I  met  him  in 
the  street. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  Besides,  Leo's  coming.  Theyd 
meet.     It's  impossible,  Lesbia. 

Lesbia.  Oh,  I  forgot  that.  That  settles  it.  He 
mustnt  come. 

The  General.     Of  course  he  mustnt.     You  tell  him 


224  Getting  :SIarried 

that  if  he  enters  this  house,  I'll  leave  it;  and  so  will 
every  decent  man  and  woman  in  it. 

Collins  [returninf;  for  a  moment  to  anuounce]  Mr 
Reginald,  maam.  \IIe  tvithdraivs  when  Reginald  en- 
ters^. 

The  General  [beside  himself]  Well,  dasli  my  but- 
tons !  ! 

Reginald  is  just  the  man  Leshia  has  described.  lie  is 
hardened  and  tough  physically,  and  hasty  and  boyish  in 
his  manner  and  speech,  belonging  as  he  does  to  the  large 
class  of  English  gentlemen  of  property  (solicitor-man- 
aged) uho  have  never  developed  intellectually  since  their 
schooldays.  He  is  a  muddled,  rebcllious,^hasty,  untidy, 
forgetful,  aljvays  late  sort  of  man,  who  very  evidently 
needs  the  care  of  a  capable  woman,  and  has  never  been 
lucky  or  attractive  enough  to  get  it.  All  the  same,  a 
likeable  man,  from  whom  nobody  apprehends  any  malice 
nor  expects  any  achiever,  .^nt.  In  everything  but  years 
he  is  younger  than  his  bmther  the  General. 

Reginald  \coming  forward  between  the  General  and 
Mrs  Rridgcnorfh]  Alice:  it's  no  use.  I  cant  stay  away 
from  Edith's  wedding.  Good  morning,  Lesbia.  How  are 
you.  Boxer.''      [He  offers  the  General  his  hand]. 

The  General  [with  crushing  stiffness]  I  was  just 
telling  Alice,  sir,  that  if  you  entered  this  house,  I  should 
leave  it. 

Reginald.  Well,  dont  let  me  detain  you,  old  chap. 
When  you  start  calling  people,  Sir.  youre  not  particu- 
larly good  company. 

Lesbia.  Dont  you  begin  to  quarrel.  That  wont 
improve  the  situation. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  I  think  you  might  have  waited 
until  you  got  my  answer,  Rejjy. 

Reginald.  It's  so  jolly  easy  to  say  No  in  a  letter. 
Wont  you  let  me  stay  ? 

Mrs   Bridgenorth.     How  can    I  ?      Leo's   coming. 


Getting  ^Married  225 

Reginald.     Well,  she  wont  mind. 

The  General.     Wont  mind  !  !  !  !  ! 

Lesbia.  Dont  talk  nonsense,  Rejjy;  and  be  off  with 
you. 

The  General  [tvith  biting  sarcasm]  At  scliool  you 
liad  a  tlieory  that  women  liked  being  knocked  down,  I 
remember. 

Reginald.  Youre  a  nice,  chivalrous,  brotherly  sort 
of  swine,  you  are. 

The  General.  Mr  Bridgenorth:  are  you  going  to 
leave  this  house  or  am  I .'' 

Reginald.  You  are.  I  hope.  [lie  emphasizes  his  i)i- 
teuiion   to  stay  by  sitting  down]. 

The  General.  Alice:  will  you  allow  me  to  be  driven 
from  Edith's  wedding  by  this — 

Lesbia   [wamingly]      Boxer! 

The  General.  — by  this  Respondent?  Is  Edith  to 
lie  given  away  by  him? 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  Certainly  not.  Reginald:  you 
were  not  asked  to  come ;  and  I  have  asked  you  to  go. 
You  know  how  fond  I  am  of  Leo;  and  you  know  what 
she  would  feel  if  she  came  in  and  found  you  here. 

Collins  [again  apearing  in  the  tourer]  Mrs  Reg- 
inald, maam. 

Lesbia  fXo.  no.    Ask  her  to —     [All  three 

Mrs  Bridgenorth  <  Oh  how  unfortunate!     clamoring 
The  General  [Well,  dash  my  buttons  !  together]. 

It  is  too  late:  Leo  is  already  in  the  kitchen.  Collins 
goes  out,  mutely  abandoning  a  situation  which  he  de- 
plores but  has  been  unable  to  save. 

Leo  is  very  pretty,  very  youthful,  very  restless,  and 
consequently  very  charming  to  people  who  are  touched  by 
youth  and  beauty,  as  n-ell  as  to  those  who  regard  young 
women  as  more  or  less  appetizing  lollipops,  and  dont  re- 
gard old  women  at  all.     Coldly  studied,  Leo's   restless- 


226  Getting  .Married 

nets  is  much  less  lovable  than  the  kittenishness  which 
comes  from  a  rich  and  fresh  vitaliti/.  She  is  a  born 
fusser  about  herself  and  everybodi/  else  for  whom  she 
feels  responsible;  and  her  vanity  causes  her  to  exaggerate 
her  responsibilities  officiousli/.  All  her  fussing  is  about 
little  things;  but  she  often  calls  them  by  big  names,  such 
as  Art,  the  Divine  Spark,  the  world,  motherhood,  good 
breeding,  the  Universe,  the  Creator,  or  anything  else  that 
happens  to  strike  her  imagination  as  sounding  intellectu- 
ally important.  She  has  more  than  common  imagination 
and  no  more  than  common  conception  and  penetration; 
so  that  she  is  always  on  the  liigh  horse  about  words  and 
always  in  the  perambulator  about  things^  Considering 
herself  clever,  thoughtful,  and  superior  to  ordinary  weak- 
nesses and  prejudices,  she  recklessly  attaches  herself  to 
clever  men  on  that  understanding,  with  the  result  that 
they  are  frst  delighted,  then  exasperated,  and  finally 
bored.  When  marrying  Reginald  she  told  her  friends 
that  there  was  a  great  deal  in  him  which  needed  bringing 
out.  If  she  were  a  middle-aged  man  she  would  be  the 
terror  of  his  club.  Being  a  pretty  young  woman,  she  is 
forgiven  everything,  proving  that  "  Tout  comprendre, 
c'est  tout  pardonner  "  is  an  error,  the  fact  being  that 
the  secret  of  forgiving  everything  is  to  understand 
nothing. 

She  runs  in  fussily,  full  of  her  own  importance,  and 
swoops  on  Lesbia,  who  is  much  less  disposed  to  spoil  her 
than  Mrs  Bridgenorth  is.  But  Leo  affects  a  special  in- 
timacy with  Lesbia,  as  of  two  thinkers  among  the  Phil- 
istines. 

Leo  \to  Lesbia,  kissing  her^  Good  morning.  \Com- 
ing  to  Mrs  Bridgenorth]  How  do.  Alice?  [Passing  on 
towards  the  hearth]  Why  so  gloomy.  General?  [Reg- 
inald rises  between  her  and  the  General]  Oh,  Rejjy! 
What  will  the  King's  Proctor  say? 

Reginald.     Damn  the  Kind's   Proctor ! 


Getting  jNlarried  227 

Leo.  Naughty.  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  kiss  vou; 
but  dont  any  of  you  tell.  [She  kisses  hiyn.  They  can 
hardly  believe  their  eyes].  Have  you  kept  all  your 
promises .'' 

Regin.^ld.      Oh,   dont  begin   bothering  about   those— 

Leo  [insisting]  Have.^  You?  Kept.^  Your.''  Prom- 
ises? Have  you  rubbed  your  head  with  the  lotion  every 
night? 

Reginald.     Yes,  yes.     Nearly  every  night. 

Leo.  Nearly  !  I  know  what  that  means.  Have  you 
worn  your  liver  pad  ? 

The  General  [sohuenly]  Leo:  forgiveness  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  traits  in  a  woman's  nature;  but  there 
are  things  that  should  not  be  forgiven  to  a  man.  When  a 
man  knocks  a  woman  down  [Leo  gives  a  little  shriek  of 
laughter  and  collapses  on  a  chair  next  Mrs  Bridgenorth, 
on  her  left]  — 

Reginald  [sardonically]  The  man  that  would  raise 
his  hand  to  a  woman,  save  in  the  way  of  a  kindness,  is 
unworthy  the  name  of  Bridgenorth.  [He  sits  down  at 
the  end  of  the  table  Clearest  the  hearth]. 

The  General  [imich  huffed]  Oh,  well,  if  Leo  does 
not  mind,  of  course  I  have  no  more  to  say.  But  I  think 
you  might,  out  of  consideration  for  the  family,  beat  your 
wife  in  private  and  not  in  the  presence  of  the  gardener. 

Reginald  [out  of  patience]  Whats  the  good  of  beat- 
ing your  wife  unless  theres  a  witness  to  prove  it  after- 
wards ?  You  dont  suppose  a  man  beats  his  wife  for  the 
fun  of  it,  do  you?  How  could  she  have  got  her  divorce 
if  I  hadnt  beaten  her?     Nice  state  of  things,  that! 

The  General  [gasping]  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  you  did  it  in  cold  blood?  simply  to  get  rid  of  your 
wife? 

Reginald.  No,  I  didn't:  I  did  it  to  get  her  rid  of 
me.  What  would  you  do  if  you  were  fool  enough  to 
marry  a  woman  thirty  years  younger  than  yourself,  and 


228  Getting  :Married 

then  found  that  she  didnt  care  for  you,  and  was  in  love 
with  a  young  fellow  with  a  face  like  a  mushroom. 

Leo.  He  has  not.  [Bursting  into  tears]  And  you 
are  most  unkind  to  say  I  didnt  care  for  you.  Nolx)dy 
could  have  been  fonder  of  you. 

Reginald.  A  nice  way  of  slicwinir  your  fondness!  I 
had  to  go  out  and  dig  that  flower  bed  all  over  with  my 
own  hands  to  soften  it.  I  had  to  pick  all  the  stones  out 
of  it.  And  then  she  comj)lained  that  I  hadnt  done  it 
jiroj)erly.  because  she  got  a  worm  down  her  neck.  I  had 
to  go  to  Brighton  with  a  poor  creature  who  took  a  fancy 
to  me  on  tlie  way  down,  and  got  conscientious  scruples 
about  connnitting  perjury  after  dinner.  »I  had  to  put 
her  down  in  the  hotel  book  as  Mrs  Reginald  Bridge- 
north:  Leo's  name!  Do  you  know  what  that  feels  like 
to  a  decent  man?  Do  you  know  what  a  decent  man  feels 
about  his  wife's  name?  How  would  you  like  to  go  into  a 
hotel  before  all  the  waiters  and  penjile  with — with  that 
on  your  arm?  Not  that  it  was  the  poor  girl's  faidt,  of 
course;  only  she  started  crying  because  I  couldnt  stand 
her  touching  me;  and  now  she  keeps  writing  to  me.  And 
then  I'm  held  up  in  the  public  court  for  cruelty  and 
adultery,  and  turned  away  from  Edith's  wedding  by 
Alice,  and  lectured  by  you!  a  bachelor,  and  a  precious 
green  one  at  that.     What  do  you  know  about  it? 

The  Gener.\l.  Am  I  to  understand  that  the  whole 
case  was  one  of  collusion  ? 

Reginald.  Of  course  it  was.  Half  the  cases  are 
collusions:  what  are  people  to  do?  \The  General,  pass- 
ing his  hand  dazedly  over  his  bewildered  brow,  sinks  into 
the  railed  chair].  And  what  do  you  take  me  for.  that 
you  should  have  the  cheek  to  pretend  to  believe  all  that 
rot  about  my  knocking  Leo  about  and  leaving  her  for — 
for  a — a —     Ugh  !  you  should  have  seen  her. 

The  General.  This  is  perfectly  astonishing  to  me. 
WTiv  did  vou  do  it?     Whv  did  Leo  allow  it? 


Getting  Married  229 

Reginald.      Youd  better  ask  her. 

Leo  \ still  in  tears]  I'm  sure  I  never  thought  it  would 
be  so  horrid  for  Rejjy.  I  offered  honorably  to  do  it  my- 
self, and  let  him  divoree  me;  but  he  wouldnt.  And  he 
said  himself  that  it  was  the  only  way  to  do  it — that  it 
■was  the  law  that  he  should  do  it  that  way.  I  never  saw 
that  hateful  creature  until  that  day  in  Court.  If  he  had 
only  shewn  her  to  me  before,  I  should  never  have 
allowed  it. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  You  did  all  this  for  Leo's  sake, 
Rejjy? 

Rk(;ixai.d  [with  an  unbearable  sense  of  in'pirif]  I 
shouldnt  mind  a  bit  if  it  were  for  Leo's  sake.  But  to 
have  to  do  it  to  make  room  for  that  mushroom-faced  ser- 
pent— ! 

The  General  {jumping  up]  What  right  had  he  to 
be  made  room  for?  Are  you  in  your  senses?  What 
right  ? 

Reginald.  The  right  of  being  a  young  man.  suitable 
to  a  young  woman.  I  had  no  right  at  my  age  to  marry 
Leo:  she  knew  no  more  about  life  than  a  child. 

Leo.  I  knew  a  great  deal  more  about  it  than  a  great 
baby  like  you.  I'm  sure  I  dont  know  how  youll  get  on 
with  no  one  to  take  care  of  you:  I  often  lie  awake  at  night 
thinking  about  it.  And  now  youve  made  me  thoroughly 
misei'able. 

Reginald.  Serve  you  right!  \She  iveeps].  There: 
dont  get  into  a  tantrum,  Leo. 

Lesbia.  May  one  ask  who  is  the  mushroom-faced  ser- 
pent? 

Leo.     He  isnt. 

Reginald.      Sinjon  Hotchkiss.  of  course. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  Sinjon  Hotchkiss!  Why,  he's 
coming  to  the  wedding! 

Reginald.  What!  In  that  case  I'm  off  [he  makes 
for  the  tower] . 


230 


Getting  ^larried 


The  General 


Mrs     Bridge- 
north 


Leo  '  f      [seizing    him]     No 

you  shant.  You  prom- 
ised   to     be     nice    to 
him. 
[all  four  rush-  No,    dont    go,    old 

ingafterhim      cliap.      Not      from 
and    captur-  "i  Edith's  wedding. 
iiig    hint    on  Oh,   do   stay,    Rcj- 

(he     thresh-     jy.     I  shall  really  be 
old]  hurt  if  you  desert  us. 

Lesbia  Better    stay,    Reg- 

inald.   You  must  meet 
him  sootier  or  l.-itcr. 
Reginald.     A  luoment  ago.  when   I   wanted  to  stay, 
you  M-ere  all  shoving  me  out  of  the  house.     Now  that  I 
want  to  go,  you  wont  let  mc. 

Mrs  Briuoenorth.  I  shall  send  a  note  to  Mr  Hotch- 
kiss  not  to  come. 

Leo  [treeping  again]  Oh,  Alice  I  [She  comes  back 
to  her  chair,  hearthrokoi]. 

Reginald  [out  of  patience]  Oh  well,  let  her  have  her 
way.  Let  her  have  her  mushroom.  Let  him  come.  Let 
them  all  come. 

lie  crosses  the  kitchen  to  the  oak  chest  and  sits  sulkily 
on  it.  Mrs  Bridgcnorth  shrugs  her  shoulders  and  sits  at 
the  table  in  lieginald's  neighborhood  listening  in  placid 
helplessness.  Lesbia,  out  of  patience  with  Leo's  tears, 
goes  into  the  garden  and  sits  there  near  the  door,  snuffing 
up  the  open  air  in  her  relief  from  the  domestic  stuffi- 
ness of  Reginald's  affairs. 

Leo.  It's  so  cruel  of  you  to  go  on  pretending  that  I 
dont  care  for  you,  Rejjy. 

Reginald  [bitterly]  She  explained  to  me  that  it  was 
only  that  she  had  exhausted  my  conversation. 

The  General  [coming  paternally  to  Leo]  My  dear 
girl :  all  the  conversation  in  the  world  has  been  exhausted 


Getting  ]Married  231 

long  ago.  Heaven  knows  I  have  exhausted  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  British  Army  these  thirty  years ;  but  I  dont 
leave  it  on  that  account. 

Leo.  It's  not  that  Ive  exhausted  it;  but  he  will  keep 
on  repeating  it  when  I  want  to  read  or  go  to  sleep.  And 
Sin j on  amuses  me.     He's  so  clever. 

The  General  [stung]  Ha !  The  old  complaint. 
You  all  want  geniuses  to  marry.  This  demand  for  clever 
men  is  ridiciilous.  Somebod}'  must  marry  the  plain,  hon- 
est, stupid   fellows.      Have  you  thought  of  that.'' 

Leo.  But  there  are  such  lots  of  stupid  women  to 
marry.  Why  do  they  want  to  marry  us?  Besides,  Rejjy 
knows  that  I'm  quite  fond  of  liim.  I  like  him  because  he 
wants  me;  and  I  like  Sinjon  because  I  want  him.  I  feel 
that  I  have  a  duty  to  Rejjy. 

The  General.      Precisely:  you  liave. 

Leo.      And,  of  course,  Sinjon  has  the  same  duty  to  me. 

The  General.     Tut,  tut! 

Leo.  Oh,  how  silly  the  law  is !  Why  cant  I  marry 
them  both? 

The  General  [shocked]     Leo! 

Leo.  Well,  I  love  them  both.  I  should  like  to 
marry  a  lot  of  men.  I  should  like  to  have  Rejjy  for 
every  day,  and  Sinjon  for  concerts  and  theatres  and 
going  out  in  the  evenings,  and  some  great  austere  saint 
for  about  once  a  year  at  the  end  of  the  season,  and  some 
perfectly  blithering  idiot  of  a  boy  to  be  quite  wicked 
with.  I  so  seldom  feel  wicked;  and,  when  I  do,  it's  such 
a  pity  to  M'aste  it  merely  because  it's  too  silly  to  confess 
to  a  real  grown-up  man. 

Reginald.  This  is  the  kind  of  thing,  you  know — 
[Ilelplessli/]      Well,  there  it  is! 

The  General  [decisiveli/]  Alice:  this  is  a  job  for 
the  Barmecide.  He's  a  Bishop:  it's  his  duty  to  talk  to 
Leo.  I  can  stand  a  good  deal ;  but  when  it  comes  to  flat 
polygamy  and  polyandry,  we  ought  to  do  something. 


232  Getting  Married 

Mrs  Bridgenorth  \going  to  the  studtf  door]  Do 
come  here  a  moment,  Alfred.     We're  in  a  difficulty. 

The  Bishop  [rrithiit]      Ask  Ciillins.  I'm  busy. 

Mrs  Brh)(;enorth.  Collins  wont  do.  It's  something 
very  serious.  Po  come  just  a  moment,  dear.  [JV hen- 
she  hears  him  coming  she  takes  a  chair  at  the  nearest  end 
of  the  table]. 

The  Bishop  comes  out  of  his  study.  lie  is  still  a  slim 
active  man,  spare  of  flesh,  and  younger  by  temperament 
than  his  brothers.  lie  has  a  delicate  skin,  fine  hands,  a 
salient  nose  tvith  chin  to  match,  a  short  beard  which  ac- 
centuates his  sharp  chin  by  bristling  forward,  clever  hu- 
morous eyes,  not  without  a  glint  of  7nisthief  in  them, 
ready  bright  speech,  and  the  ways  of  a  successful  man 
who  is  always  interested  in  himself  and  generally  rather 
well  pleased  with  himself.  When  Lesbia  hears  his  voice 
she  turns  her  chair  towards  him,  and  presently  rises  and 
stands  in   the  doorway  listening  to  the  conversation. 

The  Bishop  |  1.^0/ » if  to  Leo]  Good  morning,  my  dear. 
Hullo!  Youvc  brought  Reginald  with  you.  Thats  very 
nice  of  you.     Have  you  reconciled  them.  Boxer? 

The  General.  Reconciled  them!  Why,  man.  the 
whole  divorce  was  a  put-up  job.  She  wants  to  marry 
some   fellow   named    Hotehkiss. 

Reginald.     A   fellow  with   a   face  like — 

Leo.      You  shant,  Rejjy.     He  has  a  very  fine  face. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  And  now  she  says  she  wants  to 
marry  both  of  them,  and  a  lot  of  other  people  as  well. 

Leo.  I  didnt  say  I  wanted  to  marry  them:  I  only 
said  I  should  like  to  marry  them. 

The   Bishop.     Quite   a   nice   distinction,   Leo. 

Leo.      Just  occasionally,  you  know. 

The  Bishop  [sjf/jHjg-  down  cosily  beside  her]  Quite 
so.  Sometimes  a  poet,  sometimes  a  Bishop,  sometimes  a 
fairy  prince,  sometimes  somebody  quite  indescribable, 
and  sometimes  nobody  at  all. 


Getting  :Married  233 

Leo.     Yes:  thats  just  it.     How  did  you  know? 

The  Bishop.  Oh,  I  should  say  most  imaginative  and 
cultivated  young  women  feel  like  that.  I  wouldnt  p^ve 
a  rap  for  one  who  didnt.  Shakespear  pointed  out  long 
ago  that  a  woman  wanted  a  Sunday  husband  as  well  as 
a  weekday  one.  But,  as  usual,  he  didnt  follow  up  the 
idea. 

The  General   [aghast]      Am   I  to  understand — 

The  Bishop  \cuttiiig  him  short]  Now,  Boxer,  am  I 
the  Bishop  or  are  you? 

The  General    \sulhilif]      You. 

The  Bishop.  Then  dont  ask  me  are  you  to  under- 
stand. "  Yours  not  to  reason  why:  yours  but  to  do  and 
die  " — 

The  General.  Oh,  very  well:  go  on.  I'm  not 
clever.  Only  a  silly  soldier  man.  Ha!  Go  on.  [He 
throtvs  himself  into  the  railed  chair,  as  one  prepared  for 
the  worst]. 

Mrs   Bridgenorth.      Alfred :  dont  tease   Boxer. 

The  Bishop.  If  we  are  going  to  diseuss  ethical  ques- 
tions we  must  begin  by  giving  the  devil  fair  play.  Boxer 
never  does.  England  never  does.  We  always  assume  that 
the  devil  is  guilty;  and  we  wont  allow  him  to  prove  his 
innocence,  because  it  would  be  against  public  morals  if 
he  succeeded.  We  used  to  do  the  same  with  prisoners 
accused  of  high  treason.  And  the  consequence  is  that  we 
overreach  ourselves ;  and  the  devil  gets  the  better  of  us 
after  all.  Perhaps  thats  what  most  of  us  intend  him 
to  do. 

The  General.  Alfred:  we  asked  you  here  to  preach 
to  Leo.  You  are  preaching  at  me  instead.  I  am  not  con- 
scious of  having  said  or  done  anything  that  calls  for  that 
unsolicited  attention. 

The  Bishop.  But  poor  little  Leo  has  only  told  the 
simple  truth;  whilst  you.  Boxer,  are  striking  moral  atti- 
tudes. 


284  Getting  Married 

The  General.  I  suppose  thats  an  epigram.  I  dont 
understand  epigrams.  I'm  only  a  silly  soldier  man.  Ha! 
But  I  can  })ut  a  plain  question.  Is  Leo  to  be  encouraged 
to  be  a  polygamist .'' 

The  Bishop.  Remember  the  British  Empire,  Boxer. 
Youre  a  British  General,  you  know. 

The  Genehal.     What  has  that  to  do  with  polygamy? 

The  Bishop.  Well,  the  great  majority  of  our  fellow- 
subjects  are  polygamists.  I  cant  as  a  British  Bishop 
insult  them  by  speaking  disrespectfully  of  polygamy. 
It's  a  very  interesting  (juestion.  Many  very  interesting 
men  have  been  jiolygamists:  Solomon,  Mahomet,  and  our 
friend  the  Duke  of  — of — hm !  I  never»can  remember 
his  name. 

The  General.  It  would  become  you  better,  Alfred, 
to  send  that  silly  girl  back  to  her  husband  and  her  duty 
than  to  talk  clever  and  mm-k  at  your  religion.  "  What 
God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man  ])ut  asunder."  Re- 
member tliat. 

The  Bishop.  Dont  be  afraid.  Boxer.  What  God 
hath  joined  together  no  man  ever  shall  put  asunder:  God 
will  take  care  of  that.  \To  Leo]  By  the  way,  who  was 
it  that  joined  you  and  Reginald,  my  dear.' 

Leo.  It  was  that  awful  little  curate  tint  afterwards 
drank,  and  travelled  first  class  with  a  third-class  ticket, 
and  then  tried  to  go  on  the  stage.  But  they  wouldnt 
have  him.     He  called  himself  Egerton  I'ntheringay. 

The  Bishop.  Well,  whom  Egerton  Fotheringay  hath 
joined,  let  Sir  Gorcll  Barnes  put  asunder  by  all  means. 

The  General.  I  may  be  a  silly  soldier  man;  but  I 
call  this  blasphemy. 

The  Bishop  [graveli/]  Better  for  me  to  take  the 
name  of  Mr  Egerton  Fotheringay  in  earnest  than  for 
you  to  take  a  higher  name  in  vain. 

Lesbia.  Cant  you  three  brothers  ever  meet  without 
quarrelling? 


Getting  IVIarried  235 


'O 


The  Bishop  [mildly]  This  is  not  quarrelling,  Les- 
bia:  it's  only  English   family  life.     Good  morning. 

Leo.  You  know,  Bishop,  it's  very  dear  of  you  to  take 
my  part;  but  I'm  not  sure  that  I'm  not  a  little  shoeked. 

The  Bishop.  Then  I  think  Ive  been  a  little  more 
successful  than  Boxer  in  getting  you  into  a  proper  frame 
of  mind. 

The  General   [snorting]      Ha! 

Leo.  Not  a  bit;  for  now  I'm  going  to  shock  you 
worse  than  ever.     I  think  Solomon  was  an  old  beast. 

The  Bishop.  Precisely  what  you  ought  to  think  of 
him,  my  dear.     Dont  apologize. 

The  General  [ruore  shocked]  Well,  but  hang  it! 
Solomon  was  in  the  Bible.  And,  after  all,  Solomon  was 
Solomon. 

Leo.  And  I  stick  to  it:  I  still  want  to  have  a  lot  of 
interesting  men  to  know  quite  intimately — to  say  every- 
thing I  think  of  to  them,  and  have  them  say  everything 
they  think  of  to  me. 

The  Bishop.  So  you  shall,  my  dear,  if  you  are  lucky. 
But  you  know  you  neediit  marry  them  all.  Think  of  all 
the  buttons  you  would  have  to  sew  on.  Besides,  nothing 
is  more  dreadful  than  a  husband  who  keeps  telling  you 
everything  he  thinks,  and  always  wants  to  know  what 
you  think. 

Leo  [struck  by  this]  Well,  thats  very  true  of  Rejjy: 
in  fact,  thats  why  I  had  to  divorce  him. 

The  Bishop  [condoling]  Yes:  he  repeats  himself 
dreadfully,  doesnt  he.^ 

Reginald.  Look  here,  Alfred.  If  I  have  my  faults, 
let  her  find  them  out  for  herself  without  your  help. 

The  Bishop.  She  has  found  them  all  out  already, 
Reginald. 

Leo  [a  little  huffily]  After  all,  there  are  worse  men 
tlian  Reginald.  I  daresay  he's  not  so  clever  as  you;  but 
still  he's  not  such  a  fool  as  you  seem  to  think  him ! 


23G  GcttintT  ^Married 

The  Bishop.  Quite  riglit,  dear:  stand  up  for  your 
husband.  I  liopc  you  will  always  stand  up  for  all  your 
Imsbands.  \IIe  rises  and  goes  to  the  hearth,  where  he 
stands  complacently  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace,  beam- 
ing at  them  all  as  at  a  roomful  of  children]. 

Leg.  Please  dont  talk  as  if  I  wanted  to  marry  a 
whole  regiment.  For  me  t,here  can  never  be  more  than 
two.      I  shall  never  love  anybody  but  Rejjy  and  Sin j on. 

Regin.\ld.      a  man  with  a   face  like  a — 

Leo.      I  wont  have  it,  Rejjy.     It's  disgusting. 

The  Bishop.  You  see,  my  dear,  youU  exhaust  Sin- 
jon's  conversation  too  in  a  week  or  so.  A  man  is  like  a 
})honograph  with  half-a-dozen  records,  ^ou  soon  get 
tin-d  of  them  all;  and  yet  you  have  to  sit  at  table  whilst 
he  reels  them  off  to  every  new  visitor.  In  the  end  you 
have  to  be  content  with  his  common  humanity;  and  when 
you  come  down  to  that,  you  find  out  about  men  what  a 
great  English  poet  of  my  acquaintance  used  to  say  about 
women:  that  they  all  taste  alike.  Marry  whom  you 
please:  at  the  end  of  a  montli  he'll  be  Reginald  over 
again.      It   wasnt   worth   changing:   indeed   it  wasnt. 

Leo.      Then  it's  a  mistak*'  to  get  married. 

The  Bishop.  It  is,  my  dear;  but  it's  a  much  bigger 
mistake  not  to  get  married. 

The  Gener.'VL  [ri*/w^]  Hal  You  hear  that,  Lesbia? 
[lie  joins  her  at  the  garden  door]. 

Lesbia.      Thats  only  an  epigram.  Boxer. 

The  Genehal.  Sound  sense.  Lesbia.  When  a  man 
talks  rot,  thats  epigram :  when  he  talks  sense,  then  I 
agree  with  him. 

Reginald  [coming  off  the  oak  chest  and  looking  at  his 
watch]  It's  getting  late.  Wheres  Edith?  Hasnt  she 
got  into  her  veil  and  orange  blossoms  yet? 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.      Do  go  and  hurry  her,  Lesbia. 

Lesbia  [going  out  through  the  tower]  Come  with  me, 
Leo. 


Getting  :Married  237 

Leo    [foUonitig  Lesbia  out]      Yes,  certainly. 

The  Bishop  goes  over  to  his  wife  and  sits  down,  taking 
her  hand  and  kissing  it  by  way  of  beginning  a  conver- 
sation  H'ith  her. 

The  Bishop.  Alice:  Ive  had  another  letter  from  the 
mysterious  lady  who  cant  spell.  I  like  that  woman's 
letters.  Theres  an  intensity  of  passion  in  them  that  fas- 
cinates me. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  Do  you  mean  Incognita  Appas- 
sionata .'' 

The  Bishop.     Yes. 

The  General  [turning  abruptly:  he  has  been  looking 
out  into  the  garden]  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  women 
Avrite  love-letters  to  you.'' 

The  Bishop.      Of  course. 

The  General.     They  never  do  to  me. 

The  Bishop.  The  army  doesnt  attract  women :  the 
Church  docs. 

Reginald.  Do  you  consider  it  right  to  let  them? 
They  may  be  married  women,  you   know. 

The  Bishop.  They  always  are.  This  one  is.  [To 
Mrs  Bridgenorth]  Dont  you  think  her  letters  are  quite 
the  best  love-letters  I  get.''  [To  the  two  men]  Poor 
Alice  has  to  read  my  love-letters  aloud  to  me  at  break- 
fast, when  theyre  worth  it. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  There  really  is  something  fasci- 
nating about  Incognita.  She  never  gives  her  address. 
Thats  a  good  sign. 

The    General.      Mf!      No    assignations,    you    mean? 

The  Bishop.  Oh  yes:  she  began  the  correspond- 
ence by  making  a  very  curious  but  very  natural  assigna- 
tion. She  wants  me  to  meet  her  in  heaven.  I  hope  I 
shall. 

The  General.  Well.  I  must  say  I  hope  not,  Alfred. 
I  hope  not. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.     She  says  she  is  happily  married. 


238  Getting  Married 

and  that  love  is  a  necessary  of  life  to  her,  but  that  she 
must  have,  high  above  all  her  lovers — 

The  Bishop.      She  has  several  apparently — 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  — some  great  man  who  will 
never  know  her,  never  touch  her,  as  she  is  on  earth,  but 
whom  she  can  meet  in  heaven  when  she  has  risen  above 
all   the  everyday   vulgarities  of  earthly   love. 

The  Bishop  [rising]  Excellent.  Very  good  for  her; 
and  no  trouble  to  me.  Everybody  ought  to  have  one  of 
these  idealizations,  like  Dante's  Beatrice.  [He  clasps 
his  hands  behind  him,  and  strolls  to  the  hearth  and  back, 
sinfritiir]. 

Leshia  appears  in   the  ton-er,  rather  perturbed. 

Lesria.  Alice:  will  you  come  upstairs.''  Edith  is  not 
dressed. 

Mrs  Brhxjenorth  [rwj'rji,']  Not  dressed!  Does  she 
know  what  hour  it  is  ? 

Lesbia.  She  has  locked  herself  into  her  room,  read- 
ing. 

The  Bishop's  song  ceases;  he  stops  dead  in  his  stroll. 

The  General.      Reading! 

The    Bishop,      ^^'hat   is   she   reading? 

Lesbia.  Some  pamphlet  that  came  by  the  eleven 
o'clock  post.  She  wont  come  out.  She  wont  open  the 
door.  And  she  says  she  doesnt  know  whether  she's  going 
to  be  married  or  not  till  she's  finished  the  pamphlet.  Did 
you  ever  hear  such  a  thing?     Do  come  and  speak  to  her. 

Mrs   Bridgenorth.      Alfred:   you   had  better  go. 

The  Bishop.      Try  Collins. 

Lesbia.  Weve  tried  Collins  already.  He  got  all  that 
Ive  told  you  out  of  her  through  the  keyhole.  Come, 
Alice.  [She  vanishes.  Mrs  Bridgenorth  hurries  after 
her]. 

The  Bishop.  This  means  a  delay.  I  shall  go  back 
to  my  work  [he  makes  for  the  study  door]. 

Reginald.     What  are  you  working  at  now? 


Getting  ]Married  239 


•& 


The  Bishop  [stopping]  A  chapter  in  my  history  of 
marriage.     I'm  just  at  the  Roman  business,  you  know. 

The  General  [coming  from  the  garden  door  to  the 
chair  Mrs  Bridgenorth  has  just  left,  and  sitting  down] 
Not  more  Ritualism,  I  hope,  Alfred.^ 

The  Bishop.  Oh  no.  I  mean  ancient  Rome.  [He 
seats  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  table].  Ivc  just  come 
to  the  period  when  the  propertied  classes  refused  to  get 
married  and  went  in  for  marriage  settlements  instead.  A 
few  of  the  oldest  families  stuck  to  the  marriage  tradition 
so  as  to  keej)  up  the  su})j)ly  of  vestal  virgins,  who  had  to 
he  legitimate;  but  nobody  else  dreamt  of  getting  married. 
It's  all  very  interesting,  because  we're  coming  to  that 
here  in  England;  except  that  as  we  dont  require  any 
vestal  virgins,  nobody  will  get  married  at  all,  except  the 
poor,  perhaps. 

The  General.  You  take  it  devilishly  coolly.  Regi- 
nald: do  you  think  the  Barmecide's  quite  sane? 

Reginald.      No  worse  than  ever  he  was. 

The  General  [to  the  Bishop]  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  believe  such  a  thing  will  ever  happen  in  England  as 
that  respectable  people  will  give  up  being  married? 

The  Bishop.  In  England  especially  they  will.  In 
other  countries  the  introduction  of  reasonable  divorce 
laws  will  save  the  situation ;  but  in  England  we  always 
let  an  institution  strain  itself  until  it  breaks.  Ive  told 
our  last  four  Prime  Ministers  that  if  they  didnt  make  our 
marriage  laws  reasonable  there  would  be  a  strike  against 
marriage,  and  that  it  would  begin  among  the  propertied 
classes,  where  no  Government  would  dare  to  interfere 
with  it. 

Reginald.     What  did  they  say  to  that? 

The  Bishop.  The  usual  thing.  Quite  agreed  with 
me,  but  were  sure  that  they  were  the  only  sensible  men 
in  the  world,  and  that  the  least  hint  of  marriage  reform 
would  lose  them  the  next  election.     And  then  lost  it  all 


240  Getting  :Married 

the  same:  on  cordite,  on  drink,  on  Chinese  labor  in  South 
Africa,  on  all  sorts  of  trumpery. 

Reginald  [litrchitii^  across  the  kitchen  toirards  the 
hearth  tvith  his  hands  in  his  pockets]  It's  no  use:  they 
wont  listen  to  our  sort.  [Turning  on  them^  Of  course 
they  have  to  make  you  a  Bishop  and  Boxer  a  General, 
because,  after  all,  their  blessed  rabble  of  snobs  and  cads 
and  half-starved  shopkeepers  cant  do  government  work; 
and  the  bounders  and  week-enders  are  too  lazy  and  vul- 
gar. Theyd  simply  rot  without  us ;  but  wliat  do  they 
ever  do  for  us?  what  attention  do  they  ever  j)ay  to  what 
we  say  and  what  we  Mant  ?  I  take  it  that  we  Bridge- 
norths  are  a  pretty  typical  English  faipily  of  the  sort 
that  has  always  set  things  straight  and  stuck  up  for  the 
right  to  think  and  believe  according  to  our  conscience. 
But  nowadays  we  are  expected  to  dress  and  eat  as  the 
week-end  bounders  do,  and  to  think  and  believe  as  the 
converted  cannibals  of  C't-ntr.il  Africa  do,  and  to  lie  down 
and  let  every  snob  and  every  cad  and  every  halfpenny 
journalist  walk  over  us.  Why,  theres  not  a  newspaper 
in  England  today  that  represents  what  I  call  solid 
Bridgenorth  opinion  and  tradition.  Half  of  them  read 
as  if  they  were  published  at  the  ne.irest  mother's  meet- 
ing, and  the  other  half  at  the  nearest  motor  garage.  Do 
you  call  these  eha|)s  gentlemen.^  Do  you  call  them  Eng- 
lishmen? I  dont.  [lie  throws  himself  disgustedly  into 
the   nearest   chair^^. 

The  General  [excited  by  Reginald's  eloquence]  Do 
you  see  my  imiform?  What  did  Collins  say?  It  strikes 
the  eye.  It  was  meant  to.  I  put  it  on  expressly  to  give 
the  modern  army  bounder  a  smack  in  the  eye.  Some- 
body has  to  set  a  right  example  by  beginning.  Well,  let 
it  be  a  Bridgenorth.  I  believe  in  family  blood  and  tradi- 
tion, by  George. 

The  Bishop  [musing^  I  wonder  who  will  begin  the 
stand  against  marriage.     It  must  come  some  day.     I  was 


I 


Gettino;  ^^.larried  241 


'O 


married  myself  before  I'd  thought  about  it;  and  even  if 
I  had  thought  about  it  I  was  too  much  in  love  with  Alice 
to  let  anything  stand  in  the  way.  But,  you  know,  Ive 
seen  one  of  our  daughters  after  another — Ethel,  Jane, 
Fanny,  and  Christina  and  Florence — go  out  at  that  door 
in  their  veils  and  orange  blossoms;  and  Ive  always  won- 
dered whether  theyd  have  gone  quietly  if  theyd  known 
what  they  were  doing.  Ive  a  horrible  misgiving  about 
that  pamphlet.  All  progress  means  war  with  Society. 
Heaven  forbid  that  Edith  should  be  one  of  the  com- 
batants ! 

St  John  Ilofchkiss  comes  into  the  totrer  ushered  by 
Collins.  lie  is  a  very  s?nart  young  gentleman  of  twenty- 
nine  or  thereabouts,  correct  in  dress  to  the  last  thread 
of  his  collar,  but  too  much  preoccupied  with  his  ideas  to 
be  embarrassed  by  any  concern  as  to  his  appearance.  He 
talks  about  himself  with  energetic  gaiety.  He  talks  to 
other  people  with  a  sweet  forbearance  (implying  a  kindly 
consideration  for  their  stupidity)  which  infuriates  those 
whom  he  does  not  succeed  in  amusing.  They  either  lose 
their  tempers  with  hitn  or  try  in  vain  to  syiub  hini. 

Collins  [announcing]  Mr  Hotchkiss.  [He  with- 
draws^. 

HoTCHKiss  [clapping  Reginald  gaily  on  the  shoulder 
as  he  passes  him^      Tootle  loo,  Rejjy. 

Reginald  [curtly,  without  rising  or  turning  his  head] 
Morning. 

Hotchkiss.      Good  morning.  Bishop. 

The  Bishop  [coming  off  the  table].  What  on  earth 
are  you  doing  here,  Sinjon?  You  belong  to  the  bride- 
groom's party:  youve  no  business  here  until  after  the 
ceremony. 

Hotchkiss.  Yes.  I  know:  thats  just  it.  ^lay  I  have 
a  word  with  you  in  private?  Rejjy  or  any  of  the  fam- 
ily wont  matter;  but — [he  glances  at  the  General,  who 
has   risen    rather  stiffly,   as   he   strongly    disapproves   of 


242  Getting  Married 

the  part  played  by  Hotchkiss  in  Reginald's  domestic 
ajfairs^. 

The  Bishop.  All  right,  Sinjon.  This  is  our  brother, 
General  Bridgcnortli.  [He  goes  to  the  hearth  and  posts 
himself  there,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him]. 

Hotchkiss.  Oh,  good !  [He  turns  to  the  General, 
and  takes  out  a  card-case].  As  you  are  in  the  service, 
allow  me  to  introduce  mj'self.  Read  my  card,  please. 
[He  presents  his  card  to  the  astonished  General]. 

The  General  [reading]  "  Mr  St  John  Hotchkiss, 
the  Celebrated  Coward,  late  Lieutenant  in  the  l()5th 
Fusiliers." 

Reginald  [with  a  chuckle]  He  was  sent  back  from 
South  Africa  because  he  funked  an  order  to  attack,  and 
spoiled  his  commanding  officer's  plan. 

The  General  [very  gravely]  I  remember  the  case 
now.  I  had  forgotten  the  name.  I'll  not  refuse  your 
acquaintance,  Mr  Hotchkiss;  jiartly  because  youre  my 
brother's  guest,  and  partly  because  Ive  seen  too  much 
active  service  not  to  know  that  every  man's  nerve  plays 
him  false  at  one  time  or  another,  and  that  some  very  hon- 
orable men  should  never  go  into  action  at  all,  because 
theyre  not  built  that  way.  But  if  I  were  you  I  should 
not  use  that  visiting  card.  No  doubt  it's  an  honorable 
trait  in  your  character  that  you  dont  wish  any  man  to 
give  you  his  hand  in  ignorance  of  your  disgrace;  but  you 
had  better  allow  us  to  forget.  We  wish  to  forget.  It 
isnt  your  disgrace  alone :  it's  a  disgrace  to  the  army  and 
to  all  of  us.     Pardon  my  plain  speaking. 

Hotchkiss  [sunnily]  My  dear  General,  I  dont  know 
what  fear  means  in  the  military  sense  of  the  word.  Ive 
fought  seven  duels  with  the  sabre  in  Italy  and  Austria, 
and  one  with  pistols  in  France,  without  turning  a  hair. 
There  was  no  other  way  in  which  I  could  vindicate  my 
motives  in  refusing  to  make  that  attack  at  Smutsfontein. 
I  dont  pretend  to  be  a  brave  man.     I'm  afraid  of  wasps. 


Getting  Married  243 

I'm  afraid  of  cats.  In  spite  of  the  voice  of  reason,  I'm 
afraid  of  ghosts;  and  twice  Ive  fled  across  Europe  from 
false  alarms  of  cholera.  But  afraid  to  figlit  I  am  not. 
[He  turns  gaily  to  Reginald  and  slaps  him  on  fhc  shoul- 
der].    Eh,   Rejjy.''      [Reginald  grunts]. 

The  General.  Then  why  did  you  not  do  your  duty 
at  Smutsfontein? 

HoTCHKiss.  I  did  my  duty — my  higher  duty.  If  I 
had  made  that  attack,  my  commanding  officer's  plan 
would  have  been  successful,  and  he  would  have  been  pro- 
moted. Now  I  happen  to  think  that  the  British  Army 
should  be  commanded  by  gentlemen,  and  by  gentlemen 
alone.  This  man  was  not  a  gentleman.  I  sacrificed  my 
military  career — I  faced  disgrace  and  social  ostracism — 
rather  than  give  that  man  his  chance. 

The  General  [generously  indignant]  Your  com- 
manding officer,  sir,  was  my  friend  Major  Billiter. 

HoTCHKiss.      Precisely.     What  a  name! 

The  General.  And  pray,  sir,  on  what  ground  do 
you  dare  allege  that  Major  Billiter  is  not  a  gentleman.'' 

HoTCHKiss.  By  an  infallible  sign:  one  of  those  tri- 
fles that  stamp  a  man.  He  eats  rice  pudding  with  a 
spoon. 

The  General  [very  angry]  Confound  you,  /  eat 
rice  pudding  with  a  spoon.     Now ! 

HoTCHKiss.  Oh,  so  do  I,  frequently.  But  there  are 
ways  of  doing  these  things.  Billiter's  way  was  unmis- 
takable. 

The  General.  Well,  I'll  tell  you  something  now. 
^Mien  I  thought  you  were  only  a  coward,  I  pitied  you, 
and  would  have  done  what  I  could  to  help  you  back  to 
your  place  in  Society — 

HoTCHKiss  [interrupting  himi  Thank  you:  I  havnt 
lost  it.  My  motives  have  been  fully  appreciated.  I  was 
made  an  honorary  member  of  two  of  the  smartest  clubs 
in  London  when  the  truth  came  out. 


244  Getting  :Married 

The  General.  Well,  sir,  those  clubs  consist  of 
snobs;  and  you  are  a  jumping,  bounding,  prancing, 
snorting  snob  yourself. 

TnK  Bishop  [amused,  hut  hospitably  remonstrant] 
My  dear  Boxer  ! 

IJoTciiKiss  [delighted]  How  kind  of  you  to  say  so, 
Genernl !  Youre  quite  right:  I  am  a  snob.  Why  not.^ 
The  whole  strength  of  England  lies  in  the  fact  that  the 
enonrous  majority  of  the  English  people  are  snobs. 
They  insult  poverty.  They  desjiise  vulgarity.  They 
love  nobility.  Tiiey  admire  exclusiveness.  They  will 
not  obey  a  man  risen  from  the  ranks.  They  never  trust 
one  of  their  own  class.  I  agree  with  them.  I  share  their 
instincts.  In  my  undergraduate  days  I  was  a  Republi- 
can— a  Socialist.  I  tried  hard  to  feel  toward  a  common 
man  as  I  do  towards  a  duke.  I  couldnt.  Neither  can 
you.  Well,  why  should  we  be  ashamed  of  this  aspiration 
towards  what  is  above  us  ?  Why  dont  I  say  that  an  hon- 
est man's  the  noblest  work  of  God  ?  Because  I  dont 
think  so.  If  he's  not  a  gentleman,  I  dont  care  whether 
he's  honest  or  not:  I  shouldnt  let  his  son  marry  my 
daughter.  And  thats  the  test,  mind.  Thats  the  test. 
You  feel  as  I  do.  You  are  a  snob  in  fact:  I  am  a  snob, 
not  only  in  fact,  but  on  principle.  I  shall  go  down  in 
history,  not  as  the  first  snob,  but  as  the  first  avowed 
champion  of  English  snobbery,  and  its  first  martyr  in  the 
army.  The  n",vy  bo.\sts  two  such  martyrs  in  Captains 
Kirby  and  Wade,  who  were  shot  for  refusing  to  fight 
under  Admiral  Benbow,  a  promoted  cabin  boy.  I  have 
always  envied  them  their  glory. 

The  Gener.\l.  As  a  British  General,  sir,  I  have  to 
inform  yo'J  that  if  any  officer  under  my  command  violated 
tlie  sacred  equality  of  our  profession  by  putting  a  single 
jot  of  liis  duty  or  his  risk  on  the  shoulders  of  the  hum- 
blest drummer  boy,  I'd  shoot  him  with  my  own  hand. 

Hotchkiss.     That    sentiment    is    not    your    equality, 


Getting  ^Married  245 

General,  but  your  superiority.  Ask  the  Bishop.  [He 
seats  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  table]. 

The  Bishop.  I  cant  support  you,  Sinjon.  My  pro- 
fession also  compels  inc  to  turn  my  back  on  snobbery. 
You  see,  I  have  to  do  such  a  terribly  democratic  thing  to 
every  child  that  is  brought  to  me.  Without  distinction  of 
class  I  have  to  confer  on  it  a  rank  so  high  and  awful  that 
all  the  grades  in  Dcbrctt  and  Burke  seem  like  the  medals 
tliey  give  children  in  Infant  Schools  in  comparison.  I'm 
not  allowed  to  make  any  class  distinction.  They  are  all 
soldiers  and  servants,  not  officers  and  masters. 

HoTCHKiss.  Ah,  youre  quoting  the  Baptism  service. 
Thats  not  a  bit  real,  you  know.  If  I  may  say  so,  you 
would  both  feel  so  much  more  at  peace  with  yourselves 
if  you  would  acknowledge  and  confess  your  real  convic- 
tions. You  know  you  dont  really  think  a  Bishop  the 
equal  of  a  curate,  or  a  lieutenant  in  a  line  regiment  the 
equal  of  a  general. 

The  Bishop.     Of  course  I  do.    I  was  a  curate  myself. 

The  General.  And  I  was  a  lieutenant  in  a  line  regi- 
ment. 

Reginald.  And  I  was  nothing.  But  we're  all  our 
own  and  one  another's  equals,  arnt  we.^  So  perhaps 
when  youve  quite  done  talking  about  yourselves,  we  shall 
get  to  whatever  business  Sinjon  came  about. 

Hotchkiss  [coming  off  the  table  hastily]  Oh!  true, 
my  dear  fellow.  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons.  It's  about 
the  wedding.'* 

The  General.     What  about  the  wedding.'' 

Hotchkiss.  Well,  we  cant  get  our  man  up  to  the 
scratch.  Cecil  has  locked  himself  in  his  room  and  wont 
see  or  speak  to  any  one.  I  went  up  to  his  room  and 
banged  at  the  door.  I  told  him  I  should  look  through 
the  keyhole  if  he  didnt  answer.  I  looked  through  the 
keyhole.  He  was  sitting  on  his  bed,  reading  a  book. 
[Reginald  rises  in  consternation.     The  General  recoils^. 


246  Getting  Married 

I  told  him  not  to  be  an  ass,  and  so  forth.  He  said  he 
was  not  goin<;  to  budge  until  lie  liad  Hnishcd  the  book. 
I  asked  him  did  lie  know  what  time  it  was,  and  whether 
he  happened  to  recollect  that  he  had  a  rather  important 
appointment  to  marry  Edith.  He  said  the  sooner  I 
stopped  interrupting  him,  the  sooner  he'd  be  ready. 
Then  he  stuffed  his  fingers  in  his  ears;  turned  over  on 
his  elbows;  and  buried  himself  in  his  beastly  book.  I 
couldnt  get  another  word  out  of  him;  so  I  thought  I'd 
better  come  here  and  warn  you. 

Reginald.  This  looks  to  me  like  a  practical  joke. 
Theyve  arranged  it  between  them. 

The  Bishop.  No.  Edith  has  no  sen«e  of  humor. 
And  Ive  never  seen  a  man  in  a  jocular  mood  on  his  wed- 
ding morning. 

Collins  appears  in  the  ton-cr,  ushering  in  the  bride- 
groom, a  ifoung  gentleman  jcith  good  looks  of  the  serious 
kind,  somewhat  earen'orn  bi/  an  exacting  conscience,  and 
just  now  distracted  by  insoluble  problems  of  conduct. 

Collins  [announcing]  Mr  Cecil  Sykes.     [He  retires]. 

HoTCHKiss.  Look  here,  Cecil:  this  is  all  wrong. 
Youve  no  business  here  until  after  the  wedding.  Hang 
it,  man  !  youre  the  bridegroom. 

SvKES  [coming  to  the  Bishop,  and  addressing  him 
with  dogged  desperation]  Ive  come  here  to  say  this. 
When  I  proposed  to  Edith  I  was  in  utter  ignorance  of 
what  I  was  letting  myself  in  for  legally.  Having  given 
my  word,  I  will  stand  to  it.  You  have  me  at  your  mercy: 
marry  me  if  you  insist.  But  take  notice  that  I  protest, 
[He  sits  down  distractedly  in  the  railed  chair]. 


The  General. 


Reginald. 


What  the  devil  do  vou 
[Both  I  jjjean  by  this?  What 
the — 

Confound  your  imperti- 
nence,  what  do  you — 


highly 
incensed] 


u 


Getting  ^Married  247 

HoTCHKiss.  ]  fEasy,  Rcjjy.  Easy,  old  man.  Steady, 
steady,  steady.  [Reginald  subsides 
into  his  chair.  Jlotchhiss  sits  on 
his  right,  appeasing  him]. 

The  Bishop.  No,  please,  Rej.  Control  yourself. 
Boxer,  I  beg  you. 

The  General.  I  tell  you  I  cant  control  myself. 
Ive  been  controlling  myself  for  the  last  half-hour  until 
I  feel  like  bursting.  [lie  sits  down  furiously  at  the  end 
of   the   table   nejct   the   study]. 

Sykes  [pointing  to  the  simmering  Reginald  and  the 
boiling  General]  Thats  just  it.  Bishop.  Edith  is  her 
uncle's  niece.  She  cant  control  herself  any  more  than 
they  can.  And  she's  a  Bisiiop's  daughter.  That  means 
that  she's  engaged  in  social  work  of  all  sorts:  organizing 
shop  assistants  and  sweated  work  girls  and  all  that. 
When  her  blood  boils  about  it  (and  it  boils  at  least  once 
a  week)  she  doesnt  care  wliat  she  says. 

Regin.vld.  Well:  you  knew  that  when  you  proposed 
to  her. 

Sykes.  Yes ;  but  I  didnt  know  that  when  we  were 
married  I  should  be  legally  responsible  if  she  libelled 
anybody,  though  all  her  property  is  protected  against  me 
as  if  I  were  the  lowest  thief  and  cadger.  This  morning 
somebody  sent  me  Belfort  Bax's  essays  on  Men's 
Wrongs ;  and  they  have  been  a  perfect  eye-opener  to  me. 
Bishop:  I'm  not  thinking  of  myself:  I  would  face  any- 
thing for  Edith.  But  my  mother  and  sisters  are  wholly 
dependent  on  my  property.  I'd  rather  have  to  cut  off 
an  inch  from  my  right  arm  than  a  hundred  a  year  from 
my  mother's  income.     I  owe  everything  to  her  care  of  me. 

Edith,  in  dressing-jacket  and  petticoat,  comes  in 
thi'ough  the  ton-er,  sn-iftly  and  determinedly,  pamphlet 
in  hand,  principles  up  in  arms,  more  of  a  bishop  than  her 
father,  yet  as  much  a  gentlewoman  as  her  mother.  She 
is  the  typical  spoilt  child  of  a  clerical  household:  almost 


248  Getting  Married 

as  terrible  a  product  as  the  typical  spoilt  child  of  a  Bo- 
hemian household :  that  is,  all  her  childish  affectations  of 
conscientious  scruple  and  religious  impulse  have  been 
applauded  and  deferred  to  until  she  has  become  an  ethi- 
cal snob  of  the  first  water.  Her  father's  sense  of  humor 
and  her  mother's  placid  balance  have  done  something  to 
save  her  humanitij ;  but  her  impetuous  temper  and  ener- 
getic tvill,  unrestrained  by  any  touch  of  humor  or  scep- 
ticism, carry  everything  before  them.  Imperious  and 
dogmatic,  she  takes  command  of  the  party  at  once. 

EuiTH  [standing  behind  Cecil's  chair]  Cecil:  I  heard 
your  voice.  I  must  speak  to  you  very  particularly. 
Papa:  go  away.     Go  away  everybody.  » 

The  Bishop  [crossing  to  the  study  door]  I  think 
there  can  be  no  doubt  tliat  Edith  wishes  us  to  retire. 
Come.  [He  stands  in  the  doom-ay,  waiting  for  them  to 
follow]. 

SvKKs.  Thats  it.  you  see.  It's  just  this  outspoken- 
ness that  makes  my  j)osition  hard,  much  as  I  admire  her 
for  it. 

Edith.      Do  you  want  me  to  flatter  and  be  untruthful? 

Sykes.      No,  not  exactly  that. 

Edith.  Does  anybody  want  me  to  flatter  and  be  un- 
truthful? 

HoTCHKiss.  Well,  since  you  ask  me.  I  do.  Surely 
it's  the  very  first  qualification  for  tolerable  social  inter- 
course. 

The  General  [markedly]  I  hope  you  will  always 
tell  me  the  truth,  my  darling,  at  all  events. 

Edith  [complacently  coming  to  the  fireplace]  You 
can  depend  on  me  for  that,  Uncle  Boxer. 

HoTCHKiss.  Are  you  sure  you  have  any  adequate 
idea  of  what  the  truth  about  a  military  man  really  is? 

Reginald  [aggressively]  Whats  the  truth  about  you, 
I  wonder? 

HoTCHKiss.     Oh,  quite  unfit  for  publication  in  its  en- 


Getting  Married  249 

tirety.  If  Miss  Bridgenorth  begins  telling  it,  I  shall 
have  to  leave  the  room. 

Reginald.  I'm  not  at  all  surprised  to  hear  it.  [Ris- 
ing] But  whats  it  got  to  do  with  our  business  here 
to-dav?  Is  it  vou  thats  going  to  be  married  or  is  it 
Edith.? 

HoTCHKiss.  I'm  so  sorry  I  get  so  interested  in  my- 
self that  I  thrust  myself  into  the  front  of  every  discus- 
sion in  the  most  insufferable  way.  [Reginald,  with  an 
exclamation  of  disgust,  crosses  the  kitchen  towards  the 
study  door].  But,  my  dear  Rejjy,  are  you  quite  sure 
that  Miss  Bridgenorth  is  going  to  be  married?  Are 
you,  Miss  Bridgenorth.'' 

Before  Edith  has  time  to  answer  her  rnotJier  returns 
ivith  Leo  and  Lesbia. 

Leo.  Yes,  here  she  is,  of  course.  I  told  you  I  heard 
her  dash  downstairs.  [She  comes  to  the  end  of  the  table 
next  the  fireplace]. 

Mrs  Bridgexohth  [transfixed  in  the  iniddle  of  the 
kitchen]      And  Cecil!  ! 

Lesbia.     And  Sin j on! 

The  Bishop.  Edith  wishes  to  speak  to  Cecil.  [Mrs 
Bridgenorth  comes  to  him.  Lesbia  "oes  into  the  sorden, 
as  before].     Let  us  go  into  my  study. 

Leo.  But  she  must  come  and  dress.  Look  at  the 
hour ! 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  Come,  Leo  dear.  [Leo  follows 
her  reluctantly.  They  are  about  to  go  into  the  study 
with  the  Bishop]. 

HoTCHKiss.  Do  you  know,  Miss  Bridgenorth,  I 
should  most  awfully  like  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say  to 
poor  Cecil. 

Reginald    [scandalized]      Well! 

Edith.     Who  is  poor  Cecil,  pray? 

HoTCHKiss.  One  always  calls  a  man  that  on  his  wed- 
ding morning:  I  dont  know  why.     I'm  his  best  man,  you 


250  Getting  Married 


lr> 


know.  Dont  you  think  it  gives  me  a  certain  right  to  be 
present  in  Cecil's  interest? 

The  General  [gravely]  There  is  such  a  thing  as 
delicacy,  Mr  Hotchkiss. 

HoTCHKiss.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  curiosity,  Gen- 
eral. 

The  General  [furious]  Delicacy  is  thrown  away 
here,  Alfred.  Edith:  you  had  better  take  Sykes  into  the 
study. 

The  group  at  the  study  door  breaks  up.  The  General 
flings  himself  into  the  last  chair  on  the  long  side  of  the 
table,  near  the  garden  door.  Leo  sits  at  the  end,  next 
him,  and  Mrs  Bridgenorth  next  Leo.  Reginald  returns 
to  the  oak  chest,  to  be  near  Leo;  and  the  Bishop  goes  to 
his  n-ife  and  stands  by  her. 

Hotchkiss  [to  Edith]  Of  course  I'll  go  if  you  wish 
me  to.  But  Cecil's  objection  to  go  tlirough  with  it  was 
so  entirely  on  public  grounds — 

Edith   [n-ith  cjuick  suspicion]      His  objection? 

SvKEs.  Siiijon:  you  have  no  right  to  say  that.  I  ex- 
pressly said  that  I'm  ready  to  go  through  with  it. 

Edith.  Cecil:  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have 
been   raising  difficulties  about  our  marriage? 

Sykes.  I  raise  no  difficulty.  But  I  do  beg  you  to  be 
careful  what  you  say  about  people.  You  must  remember, 
my  dear,  that  when  we  are  married  I  shall  be  responsi- 
ble for  everything  you  say.  Only  last  week  you  said  on 
a  public  platform  that  Slattox  and  Chinnery  were  scoun- 
drels. They  could  have  got  a  thousand  pounds  damages 
apiece  from  me  for  that  if  we'd  been  married  at  the 
time. 

Edith  [austerely]  I  never  said  anything  of  the  sort. 
I  never  stoop  to  mere  vituperation :  what  would  my  girls 
say  of  me  if  I  did?  I  chose  my  words  most  carefully.  I 
said  they  were  tyrants,  liars,  and  thieves;  and  so  they 
are.     Slattox  is  even  worse. 


Getting  ]MaiTied  251 

HoTCHKiss.  I'm  afraid  that  Mould  be  at  least  five 
thousand  pounds. 

Sykes.  If  it  were  only  myself,  I  shouldnt  care.  But 
my  mother  and  sisters!  Ive  no  right  to  saeririce 
them. 

Edith.  You  neednt  be  alarmed.  I'm  not  going  to  be 
married. 

All  the  rest.     Not ! 

Sykes  [in  consternation]  Edith!  Are  you  throwing 
me  over.' 

Edith.  How  can  I  ?  you  have  been  beforehand  with 
me. 

Sykes.  On  my  honor,  no.  All  I  said  was  that  I 
didnt  know  the  law  when  I  asked  you  to  be  my 
wife. 

Edith.  And  you  wouldnt  have  asked  me  if  you  had. 
Is  that  it?  ' 

Sykes.  No.  I  should  have  asked  you  for  my  sake  to 
be  a  little  more  careful — not  to  ruin  me  uselessly. 

Edith.     You  think  the  truth  useless.'' 

HoTCHKiss.  Much  worse  than  useless,  I  assure  you. 
Frequently  most  mischievous. 

Edith.  Sinjon:  hold  your  tongue.  You  are  a  chat- 
terbox and  a  fool ! 

Mrs  Bridgenorth  |   r  t      i.  ^1  j  Edith ! 
The  Bishop  f  *-  ■'    (  My  love  I 

HoTCHKiss  [7nildli/]  I  shall  not  take  an  action, 
Cecil. 

Edith  \to  Hotchkiss]  Sorry;  but  you  are  old  enough 
to  know  better.  [To  the  others]  And  now  since  there  is 
to  be  no  wedding,  we  had  better  get  back  to  our  work. 
Mamma:  will  you  tell  Collins  to  cut  up  the  wedding  cake 
into  thirty-three  pieces  for  the  club  girls  ?  My  not  being 
married  is  no  reason  why  they  should  be  disappointed. 
[She  turns  to  go]. 


252  Getting  ]MaiTied 

HoTCHKiss  [gallaiitly]  If  youll  allow  me  to  take 
Cecil's  place,  Miss  Bridgenorth — 

Leo.     Sin  j  on! 

HoTCHKiss.  Oh,  I  forgot.  I  beg  your  pardon.  [To 
Edith,  apologetically]      A  prior  engagement. 

Kditii.  \\'hat !  You  and  Leo!  I  thought  so.  Well, 
hadnt  you  two  better  get  married  at  once.''  I  dont  ap- 
prove of  long  engagements.  The  breakfast's  ready:  the 
cake's  ready:  everything's  ready.  I'U  lend  Leo  my  veil 
and  things. 

The  Bishop.  I'm  afraid  they  must  wait  until  the 
decree  is  made  absolute,  my  dear.  And  the  license  is  not 
transferable.  * 

Edith.  Oh  well,  it  cant  be  helped.  Is  there  any- 
thing else  before  I  go  off  to  the  Club? 

SvKES.  You  dont  seem  much  disappointed,  Edith.  I 
cant  help  saying  that  much. 

Edith.  And  you  cant  help  looking  enormously  re- 
lieved, Cecil.     We  shant  be  any  worse  friends,  shall  we? 

Sykes  \ distractedly]  Of  course  not.  Still — I'm  per- 
fectly ready — at  least — if  it  were  not  for  my  mother — 
Oh,  I  dont  know  what  to  do.  Ive  been  so  fond  of  you; 
and  when  the  worry  of  the  wedding  was  over  I  should 
have  been  so  fond  of  you  again — 

Edith  [petting  him]  Come,  come!  dont  make  a  scene, 
dear.  Youre  quite  right.  I  dont  think  a  woman  doing 
public  work  ought  to  get  married  unless  her  husband 
feels  about  it  as  she  does.  I  dont  blame  you  at  all  for 
throwing  me  over. 

Regin.\ld  [bouncing  off  the  chest,  and  passing  behind 
the  General  to  the  other  end  of  the  table]  Xo:  dash  it! 
I'm  not  going  to  stand  this.  Why  is  the  man  always  to 
be  put  in  the  wrong?  Be  honest,  Edith.  Why  werent 
you  dressed?  Were  you  going  to  throw  him  over?  If 
you  were,  take  your  fair  share  of  the  blame ;  and  dont 
put  it  all  on  him. 


Gettino'  jiarried  258 


'to 


HoTCHKiss    [sTveetli/]      Would  it  not  be  better — 

Reginald  [violently/]  Now  look  here,  Hotchkiss. 
Who  asked  you  to  cut  in?  Is  your  name  Edith?  Am  I 
your  uncle? 

Hotchkiss.  I  wish  you  were:  I  should  like  to  have 
nn  uncle,  Reginald. 

Reginald.  Yah !  Sykes :  are  you  ready  to  marry 
Edith  or  are  you  not? 

Sykes.  Ive  already  said  that  I'm  quite  ready.  A 
promise  is  a  promise. 

Reginald.  We  dont  want  to  know  whether  a  prom- 
ise is  a  promise  or  not.  Cant  you  answer  yes  or  no  with- 
out spoiling  it  and  setting  Hotchkiss  here  grinning  like 
a  Cheshire  cat?  If  she  puts  on  her  veil  and  goes  to 
Church,  will  you  marry  her? 

Sykes.      Certainly.     Yes. 

Reginald.  Thats  all  right.  Now,  Edie.  put  on  your 
veil  and  off"  with  you  to  the  church.  The  bridegroom's 
waiting.      [He  sits  down   at  the   table], 

Edith.  Is  it  understood  that  Slattox  and  Chinnery 
are  liars  and  thieves,  and  that  I  hope  by  next  Wednesday 
to  have  in  my  hands  conclusive  evidence  that  Slattox  is 
something  much  worse? 

Sykes.  I  made  no  conditions  as  to  that  when  I  pro- 
posed to  you;  and  now  I  cant  go  back.  I  hope  Provi- 
dence will  spare  my  poor  mother.  I  say  again  I'm  ready 
to  marry  you. 

Edith.  Then  I  think  you  shew  great  weakness  of 
character;  and  instead  of  taking  advantage  of  it  I  shall 
set  you  a  better  example.  I  want  to  know  is  this  true. 
{She  produces  a  pamphlet  and  takes  it  to  the  Bishop; 
then  sirs  down  between  Hotchkiss  and  her  7nother]. 

The  Bishop  [reading  the  title]  Do  you  know  what 
YOU  are  going  to  do?  By  a  woman  who  has  done  it. 
May  I  ask,  my  dear,  what  she  did  ? 

Edith.     She  got  married.     W^hen  she  bad  three  chil- 


254  Getting  ^larried 

drcn — the  eldest  only  four  years  old — her  husband  com- 
mitted a  murder,  and  then  attempted  to  commit  suicide, 
but  only  succeeded  in  disfiguring  himself.  Instead  of 
hanging  him,  they  sent  him  to  penal  servitude  for  life, 
for  tlie  sake,  they  said,  of  his  wife  and  infant  children. 
And  she  could  not  get  a  divorce  from  that  horrible  mur- 
derer. They  would  not  even  keep  him  iinj^risoned  for 
life.  For  twenty  years  she  had  to  live  singly,  bringing 
up  her  children  by  her  own  work,  and  knowing  that  just 
when  they  were  grown  up  and  beginning  life,  this  dread- 
ful creature  would  be  let  out  to  disgrace  them  all,  and 
prevent  the  two  girls  getting  decently  married,  and  drive 
the  son  out  of  the  country  perhajis.  Is  tliat  really  the 
law?  Am  I  to  understand  that  if  Cecil  commits  a  mur- 
der, or  forges,  or  steals,  or  becomes  an  atheist,  I  cant  get 
divorced  from  him  ? 

The  Bishop.  Yes,  my  dear.  That  is  so.  You  must 
take  him  for  better  for  worse. 

EniTii.  Then  I  most  certainly  refuse  to  enter  into 
any  such  wicked  contract.  What  sort  of  servants.^  what 
sort  of  friends?  what  sort  of  Prime  Ministers  should  we 
have  if  we  took  them  for  better  for  worse  for  all  their 
lives?  We  should  simply  encourage  them  in  every  sort 
of  wickedness.  Surely  my  Inisband's  conduct  is  of  more 
importance  to  me  than  Mr  Balfour's  or  Mr  Asquith's. 
If  I  had  knoAvn  the  law  I  would  never  have  consented. 
I  dont  believe  any  woman  would  if  she  realized  what 
she  was  doing. 

Sykes.     But  I'm  not  going  to  commit  murder. 

Edith.  How  do  you  know?  Ive  sometimes  wanted 
to  murder  Slattox.  Have  you  never  wanted  to  murder 
somebody.  Uncle  Rejjy? 

Reginald  [at  Ilotchkiss,  rrith  intense  expression] 
Yes. 

Leo.     Rejjy! 

Reginald.     I  said  yes;  and  I  mean  yes.  There  was 


Getting  JNIarried  255 

one  nig'ht,  Hotchkiss,  when  I  jolly  near  shot  you  and 
Leo  and  finished  up  witli  myself;  and  thats  the  truth. 

Leo  [suddenly  whimpering]  Oh  Rejjy  [she  runs  to 
him  and  kisses  him]. 

Reginald  \wrathfully]  Be  off.  [She  returns  rreep- 
ing  to  her  seat], 

Mrs  Bridgenorth  [petting  Leo,  hut  speaking  to  the 
com  pan  1/  at  large]  But  isnt  all  this  great  nonsense? 
What  likeliiiood  is  there  of  any  of  us  committing  a 
crime  ? 

Hotchkiss.  Oh  yes,  I  assure  you.  I  went  into  the 
matter  once  very  carefully ;  and  I  found  things  I 
have  actually  done — things  that  everybody  does,  I  im- 
agine— would  expose  me,  if  I  were  found  out  and  prose- 
cuted, to  ten  years'  penal  servitude,  two  years  hard 
labor,  and  the  loss  of  all  civil  rights.  Not  counting  that 
I'm  a  private  trustee,  and,  like  all  private  trustees,  a 
fraudulent  one.  Otherwise,  the  widow  for  whom  I  am 
trustee  would  starve  occasionally,  and  the  children  get 
no  education.  And  I'm  probably  as  honest  a  man  as 
any  here. 

The  General  [outraged[  Do  you  imply  that  I  have 
been  guilty  of  conduct  that  would  expose  me  to  penal 
servitude  ? 

Hotchkiss.  I  should  think  it  quite  likely.  But  of 
course  I  dont  know. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  But  bless  me!  marriage  is  not  a 
question  of  law,  is  it?  Have  you  children  no  affection 
for  one  another  ?     Surely  thats  enough  ? 

Hotchkiss.      If  it's  enough,  why  get  married? 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  Stuff,  Sinjon!  Of  course  people 
must  get  married.  [Uneasily]  Alfred:  why  dont  you 
say  something?     Surely  youre  not  going  to  let  this  go  on. 

The  General.  Ive  been  waiting  for  the  last  twenty 
minutes,  Alfred,  in  amazement !  in  stupefaction !  to  hear 
you  put  a  stop  to  all  this.     We  look  to  you:  it's  your 


256  Getting  ]Married 

place,  your  office,  your  duty.  Exert  your  authority  at 
once. 

The  Bishop.  You  must  give  the  devil  fair  play, 
Boxer.  Until  you  have  heard  and  weighed  his  case  you 
have  no  right  to  condemn  him.  I'm  sorry  you  have  heen 
kept  waiting  twenty  minutes;  but  I  myself  have  waited 
twenty  years  for  this  to  happen.  Ive  often  wrestled 
with  the  temptation  to  pray  that  it  niiglit  not  hapiien  in 
my  own  household.  Perhaps  it  was  a  presentiment  that 
it  might  become  a  part  of  our  old  Bridgenorth  burden 
that  made  me  warn  our  Governments  so  earnestly  that 
unless  the  law  of  marriage  were  first  made  human,  it 
could  never  become  divine.  * 

Mrs  BniixiENonTH.  Oh,  do  be  sensible  about  this. 
People  must  get  married.  What  would  3'ou  have  said  if 
Cecil's  parents  had  not  been  married? 

The  Bis>iop.      They  were  not,  my  dear. 


HoTCHKISS. 

Reginald. 

The  General. 

Leo. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth. 


W 


Hallo! 

What  d'ye  mean? 

Eh? 

Not  married ! 

What ! 


Sykes  [rising  in  amazement]  W^hat  on  earth  do  you 
mean.  Bishop?     My  parents  were  married. 

HoTCHKiss.      You  cant  remember,  Tecil. 

SvKES.  Well,  I  never  asked  my  mother  to  shew  me 
her  marriage  lines,  if  thats  what  you  mean.  What  man 
ever  has?  I  never  suspected — I  never  knew — Are  you 
joking?     Or  have  we  all  gone  mad? 

The  Bishop.  Dont  be  alarmed,  Cecil.  Let  me  ex- 
plain. Your  parents  were  not  Anglicans.  You  were 
not,  I  think.  Anglican  yourself,  until  your  second  year  at 
Oxford.  They  were  Positivists.  They  went  through  the 
Positivist  ceremony  at  Newton  Hall  in  Fetter  Lane  after 
entering  into  the  civil  contract  before  the  Registrar  of 


Getting  ]\Iarried  257 

the  West  Strand  District.  I  ask  you,  as  an  Anglican 
Catholic,  was  that  a  marriage? 

SvKEs  [overwhelmed]  Great  Heavens,  no!  a  thou- 
sand times,  no.  I  never  thought  of  that.  I'm  a  child 
of  sin.     [He  collapses  into  the  reiled  chair]. 

The  BisHor.  Oli,  come,  come!  You  are  no  more  a 
child  of  sin  than  any  Jew,  or  Mohammedan,  or  Noncon- 
formist, or  anyone  else  born  outside  the  Churcli.  But 
you  see  how  it  affects  my  view  of  the  situation.  To  me 
there  is  only  one  marriage  that  is  holy:  the  Church's  sac- 
rament of  marriage.  Outside  that,  I  can  recognize  no 
distinction  between  one  civil  contract  and  another. 
There  was  a  time  when  all  marriages  were  made  in 
Heaven.  But  because  tlie  Church  was  unwise  and  would 
not  make  its  ordinances  reasonable,  its  power  over  men 
and  women  was  taken  away  from  it;  and  marriages  gave 
place  to  contracts  at  a  registry  office.  And  now  that  our 
Governments  refuse  to  make  these  contracts  reasonable, 
those  whom  we  in  our  blindness  drove  out  of  the  Church 
will  be  driven  out  of  the  registry  office;  and  we  sliall 
have  the  history  of  Ancient  Rome  repeated.  We  shall  be 
joined  by  our  solicitors  for  seven,  fourteen,  or  twenty- 
one  years — or  perhaps  months.  Deeds  of  partnership 
will  replace  the  old  vows. 

The  General.  Would  you,  a  Bishop,  approve  of 
such  partnerships  ? 

The  Bishop.  Do  you  think  that  I,  a  Bishop,  approve 
of  the  Deceased  Wife's  Sister  Act.''  That  did  not  pre- 
vent its  becoming  law. 

The  General.  But  when  the  Government  sounded 
you  as  to  whether  youd  marry  a  man  to  his  deceased 
wife's  sister  you  very  naturally  and  properly  told  them 
youd  see  them  damned  first. 

The  Bishop  [horrified]  No,  no,  really,  Boxer!  You 
must  not — 

The  General    [impatiently]      Oh,  of  course   I   dont 


258  Getting  Married 

mean  that  you  used  those  words.  But  that  was  the 
meaning  and  the  spirit  of  it. 

The  Bishop.  Not  the  spirit,  Boxer,  I  protest.  But 
never  mind  that.  The  point  is  that  State  marriage  is 
already  divorced  from  Church  marriage.  The  relations 
between  Leo  and  Rejjy  and  Sinjon  are  perfectly  legal; 
but  do  you  expect  me,  as  a  Bishop,  to  approve  of  them  ? 

The  General.  I  dont  defend  Reginald.  He  should 
have  kicked  you  out  of  the  house,  Mr.   Hotchkiss. 

Reginald  [r/.Tinif]  How  could  I  kick  him  out  of  the 
house?  He's  stronger  than  me:  he  could  have  kicked  me 
out  if  it  came  to  that.  He  did  kick  me  out:  what  else 
was  it  Init  kicking  out,  to  take  my  wife's  affections  from 
me  and  establish  himself  in  my  place.'*  [He  comes  to 
the  hearth]. 

Hotchkiss.  I  protest,  Reginald,  I  said  all  tliat  a 
man  could  to  prevent  the  smash. 

Reoinalo.  Oh,  I  know  you  did:  I  dont  blame  you: 
people  dont  do  these  things  to  one  another:  they  happen 
and  they  cant  be  helped.  \\'hat  was  I  to  do?  I  was  old: 
she  was  young.  I  was  dull :  he  was  brilliant.  I  had  a 
face  like  a  walnut:  he  had  a  face  like  a  mushroom.  I 
was  as  glad  to  have  him  in  the  house  as  she  was:  he 
amused  me.  And  we  were  a  couple  of  fools:  he  gave 
us  good  advice — told  us  what  to  do  when  we  didnt  know. 
She  found  out  that  I  wasnt  any  use  to  her  and  he  was ; 
so  she  nabbed  him  and  gave  me  the  chuck. 

Leo.  If  you  dont  stop  talking  in  that  disgraceful 
way  about  our  married  life,  Lll  leave  the  room  and  never 
speak  to  you  again. 

Reginald.  Youre  not  going  to  speak  to  me  again, 
anyhow,  are  you?  Do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to  visit 
you  when  you  marry  him  ? 

Hotchkiss.  I  hope  so.  Surely  youre  not  going  to  be 
vindictive,  Rejjy.  Besides,  youU  have  all  the  advan- 
tages I  formerly  enjoyed.     Youll  be  the  visitor,  the  re- 


Getting  Married  259 

lief,  the  new  fnce,  the  fresh  news,  the  hopeless  attach- 
ment: I  shall  only  Ix"  the  husband. 

Reginald  {savagely]  Will  you  tell  me  this,  any  of 
you  ?  how  is  it  that  we  always  get  talking  about  Hotch- 
kiss  wlien  our  business  is  about  Edith?  [He  fumes  up 
the  kitchen  to  the  tower  and  back  to  his  chair]. 

Mrs  BniDGENoRTH.  Will  somebody  tell  me  how  the 
world  is  to  go  on  if  nobody  is  to  get  married? 

Sykes.  \\'ill  somebody  tell  me  what  an  honorable 
man  and  a  sincere  Anglican  is  to  propose  to  a  woman 
whom  he  loves  and  wlio  loves  him  and  wont  marr}'  him? 

Leo.  Will  somebody  tell  me  how  I'm  to  arrange  to 
take  care  of  Rejjy  when  I'm  married  to  Sinjon.  Rejjy 
must  not  be  allowed  to  marry  anyone  else,  especially 
tliat  odious  nasty  creature  that  told  all  those  wicked  lies 
about  him  in  Court. 

HoTciiKiss.  Let  us  draw  up  the  first  English  part- 
nership deed. 

Leo.     For  shame.  Sinjon! 

The  Bishop.  Somebody  must  begin,  my  dear.  Ive 
a  very  strong  suspicion  that  when  it  is  drawn  up  it  will 
be  so  much  worse  than  the  existing  law  that  you  will  all 
prefer  getting  married.  We  shall  tlierefore  be  doing 
the  greatest  possible  service  to  morality  by  just  trying 
how  the  new  system  would  work. 

Lesbia  {^suddenly  reminding  them  of  her  forgotten 
presence  as  she  stands  thoughtfully  in  the  garden  door- 
way]     Ive  been  thinking. 

The  Bishop  \to  Hotchkiss]  Nothing  like  making 
people  think:  is  there.  Sinjon? 

Lesbia  \ coming  to  the  table,  on  the  General's  left] 
A  woman  has  no  right  to  refuse  motherhood.  That  is 
clear,  after  the  statistics  given  in  The  Times  by  Mr  Sid- 
ney Webb. 

The  General.  Mr  Webb  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
It  is  the  Voice  of  Nature. 


260  Getting  Married 

Lesbia.  But  if  she  is  an  English  lady  it  is  her  right 
and  her  duty  to  stand  out  for  honorable  conditions.  I: 
we  can  agree  on  the  conditions,  I  am  willing  to  enter 
into  an  alliance  with  Boxer. 

The  General  staggers  to  his  feet,  momentarily  stupent 
and  speechless. 

Edith   [rising]      And  I  with  Cecil. 

Leo   [n.«ng]     And  I  with  Rcjjy  and  St  John. 

The  General  [aghast]  An  alliance!  Do  you  mean 
a — a — a — 

Reginald.  She  only  means  bigamy,  as  I  understand 
her. 

The  General.  Alfred:  how  long  iViorc  are  you 
going  to  stand  there  and  countenance  this  lunacy.'' 
Is  it  a  horrible  dream  or  am  I  awake.''  In  the  name 
of  common  sense  and  sanity,  let  us  go  back  to  real 
life— 

Collins  comes  in  through  the  tower,  in  alderman's 
robes.  The  ladies  trho  are  standing  sit  down  hastily,  and 
look  as  unconcerned  as  possible. 

Collins.  Sorry  to  hurry  you,  my  lord;  but  the 
Church  has  been  full  this  hour  past ;  and  the  organist 
has  played  all  the  wedding  music  in  Lohengrin  three 
times  over. 

The  General.  The  very  man  we  want.  Alfred: 
I'm  not  equal  to  this  crisis.  You  are  not  equal  to  it. 
The  Army  has  failed.  Tlie  Church  has  failed.  I  shall 
put  aside  all  idle  social  distinctions  and  appeal  to  the 
Mmiicipnlity. 

Mrs  Bridgenortii.  Do.  Boxer.  He  is  sure  to  get 
us  out  of  this  difficulty. 

Collins,  a  little  puzzled,  comes  forward  affably  to 
Hotchkiss's  left. 

HoTCHKiss  [^rising,  impressed  by  the  aldermanic 
gown]  Ive  not  had  the  pleasure.  Will  you  introduce 
me.'' 


Getting  :Mcarried  261 

Collins  [confdeittially]  All  right,  sir.  Only  the 
greengrocer,  sir,  in  charge  of  the  wedding  breakfast. 
Mr  Alderman   Collins,  sir,  when    I'm   in  my   gown. 

HoTciiKiss  [staggered]  Very  pleased  indeed  [he  sits 
down  again]. 

The  Bishop.  Personally  I  value  the  counsel  of  my 
old  friend,  Mr  Alderman  Collins,  very  highly.  If  Edith 
and  Cecil  will  allow  him — 

Edith.  Collins  has  known  me  from  my  childhood:  I'm 
sure  he  will  agree  with  me. 

Collins.  Yes,  miss:  you  may  depend  on  me  for  that. 
Might  I  ask  what  the  difficulty  is? 

Edith.  Simply  this.  Do  you  expect  me  to  get  mar- 
ried in  the  existing  state  of  the  law? 

Sykes  [rising  and  coming  to  Collin's  left  elboiv]  I 
put  it  to  you  as  a  sensible  man :  is  it  any  worse  for  her 
than   for  me? 

Reginald  [leaving  his  place  and  thrusting  himself 
hetn-een  Collins  and  Sykes,  who  returns  to  his  chair] 
Thats  not  the  point.  Let  this  be  understood,  Mr  Collins. 
It's  not  the  man  who  is  backing  out:  it's  the  woman. 
[He  posts  himself  on  the  hearth]. 

Lesbia.  We  do  not  admit  that,  Collins.  The  women 
are  perfectly  ready  to  make  a  reasonable   arrangement. 

Leo.      Witli  both  men. 

The  General.  The  case  is  now  before  you,  Mr  Col- 
lins. And  I  put  it  to  you  as  one  man  to  another :  did  you 
ever  hear  such  crazy  nonsense? 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  The  world  must  go  on,  mustnt 
it,  Collins  ? 

Collins  [snatching  at  this,  the  first  intelligible  propo- 
sition he  has  heard]  Oh,  the  world  will  go  on,  maam: 
dont  you  be  afraid  of  that.  It  aint  so  easy  to  stop  it  as 
the  earnest  kind  of  people  think. 

Edith.  I  knew  you  would  agree  with  me,  Collins. 
Thank  you. 


262  Getting  Married 

HoTCHKlss.  Have  you  the  least  idea  of  what  they 
are  talking  about,  Mr  Alderman? 

Collins.  Oh,  thats  all  right,  sir.  The  particulars 
dont  matter.  I  never  read  the  report  of  a  Committee: 
after  all,  what  can  they  say  that  you  dont  know?  You 
pick  it  up  as  they  go  on  talking.  [He  goes  to  the  comer 
of  the  table  and  speaks  across  it  to  the  compaiii/].  Well, 
my  Lord  and  Miss  Edith  and  Madam  and  Gentlemen, 
it's  like  this.  Marriage  is  tolerable  enough  in  its  way 
if  youre  easygoing  and  dont  expect  too  much  from  it. 
But  it  doesnt  bear  thinking  about.  The  great  thing  is 
to  get  the  young  peoj)le  tied  up  before  they  know  what 
theyre  letting  themselves  in  for.  Theres'  Miss  Lesbia 
now.  She  waited  till  she  started  thinking  about  it;  and 
then  it  was  all  over.  If  you  once  start  arguing.  Miss 
Edith  and  Mr  Sykes,  youll  never  get  married.  Go  and 
get  married  first:  youll  have  plenty  of  arguing  after- 
wards, miss,  believe  me. 

HoTCHKiss.  Your  warning  comes  too  late.  Theyve 
started  arguing  already. 

The  Gexkhal.  But  you  dont  take  in  the  full — well, 
I  dont  wish  to  exaggerate;  but  the  only  word  I  can  find 
is  the  full  horror  of  the  situation.  These  ladies  not  only 
refuse  our  honorable  offers,  but  as  I  understand  it — and 
I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon  most  heartily,  Lesbia,  if  I'm 
wrong,  as  I  hope  I  am — they  actually  call  on  us  to  enter 
into — I'm  sorry  to  use  the  expression;  but  what  can  I 
say? — into  alliances  with  them  under  contracts  to  be 
drawn  up  by  our  confounded  solicitors. 

Collins.  Dear  me.  General:  thats  something  new 
when  the  parties  belong  to  the  same  class. 

The  Bishop.  Not  new,  Collins.  The  Romans 
did  it. 

Collins.  Yes:  they  would,  them  Romans.  When 
youre  in  Rome  do  as  the  Romans  do,  is  an  old  saying. 
But  we're  not  in  Rome  at  present,  my  lord. 


Getting  Married  263 

The  Bishop.  We  have  got  into  many  of  their  ways. 
What  do  you  think  of  the  contract  system,  Collins  ? 

Collins.  Well,  my  lord,  when  theres  a  question  of 
a  contract,  I  always  say,  shew  it  to  me  on  paper.  If  it's 
to  be  talk,  let  it  be  talk;  but  if  it's  to  be  a  contract,  down 
with  it  in  black  and  white ;  and  then  we  shall  know  what 
we're  about. 

HoTCiiKiss.  Quite  right,  Mr  Alderman.  Let  us 
draft  it  at  once.  May  I  go  into  the  study  for  writing 
materials.  Bishop? 

The  Bishop.     Do,  Sinjon. 

Ilotchkiss  goes  into  the  lihrari/. 

Collins.      If  I  might  point  out  a  difficulty,  my  lord — 

The  Bishop.  Certainly.  [He  goes  to  the  fourth 
chair  from  the  General's  left,  but  before  sitting  down, 
courteously  points  to  the  chair  at  the  end  of  the  table 
next  the  hearth].  Wont  you  sit  down,  Mr  Alderman? 
[Collins,  very  appreciative  of  the  Bishop's  distinguished 
consideration,  sits  down.  The  Bishap  then  takes  his 
seat]. 

Collins.  We  are  at  present  six  men  to  four  ladies. 
Thats  not  fair. 

Reginald.     Not  fair  to  the  men,  you  mean. 

Leo.  Oh!  Rcjjy  has  said  something  clever!  Can  I 
be  mistaken  in  him  ? 

Ilotchkiss  comes  back  with  a  blotter  and  some  paper. 
He  takes  the  vacant  place  in  the  middle  of  the  table  be- 
tween Lesbia  and  the  Bishop. 

Collins.  I  tell  you  the  truth,  my  lord  and  ladies  and 
gentlemen:  I  dont  trust  my  judgment  on  this  subject. 
Theres  a  certain  lady  that  I  always  consult  on  delicate 
points  like  this.  She  has  a  very  exceptional  experience, 
and  a  wonderful  temperament  and  instinct  in  affairs  of 
the  heart. 

Hotchkiss.  Excuse  me,  Mr  Alderman:  I'm  a  snob; 
and  I  warn  you  that  theres  no  use  consulting  anyone  who 


204  GettincT  Married 

will  not  advise  us  frankly  on  class  lines.  Marriajre  is 
good  enough  for  the  lower  classes:  they  have  facilities 
for  desertion  that  are  denied  to  us.  Wliat  is  the  social 
position    of   this    lady.'' 

Collins.  The  highest  in  the  borough,  sir.  She  is 
the  Mayoress.  But  you  need  not  stand  in  awe  of  her, 
sir.  She  is  my  sister-in-law.  [To  the  Bisliop]  Ive 
often  spoken  of  her  to  your  lady,  my  lord.  [  To  Mrs 
Bridgeiiorth]      Mrs  George,  maam. 

Mrs  Bridoexohth  [startled]  Do  you  mean  to  say, 
Collins,  that  Mrs  George  is  a  real  person.^ 

Collins  [equally  startled]  Didnt  you  believe  in  her, 
maam .'' 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.      Never  for  a  moment. 

The  Bishop.  We  always  thought  that  Mrs  George 
was  too  good  to  be  true.  I  still  dont  believe  in  her,  Col- 
lins.    You  must  jiroduce  her  if  you  are  to  convince  me. 

Collins  [ovcrwhehned]  Well,  I'm  so  taken  aback  by 
tliis  that — Well  I  never  !  !  !  Why !  shes  at  the  church 
at  this  moment,  waiting  to  see  the  wedding. 

The  Bishop.  Then  produce  her.  [Collins  shakes  his 
head].     Come,  Collins!  confess.     Theres  no  such  person. 

Collins.  There  is,  my  lord:  there  is,  I  assure  you. 
You  ask  George.  It's  true  /  cant  produce  her;  but  you 
can,  my  lord. 

The  Bishop.      I ! 

Collins.  Yes,  my  lord,  you.  For  some  reason  that  I 
never  could  make  out,  she  has  forbidden  me  to  talk  about 
you,  or  to  let  her  meet  you.  Ive  asked  her  to  come  here 
of  a  wedding  morning  to  help  \vith  the  flowers  or  the 
like;  and  she  has  always  refused.  But  if  you  order  her 
to  come  as  her  Bishop,  she'll  come.  She  has  some  very 
strange  fancies,  has  Mrs  George.  Send  your  ring  to 
her,  my  lord — the  oflicial  ring — send  it  by  some  very 
stylish  gentleman — perhaps  Mr  Hotchkiss  here  would  be 
good  enough  to  take  it — and  she'll  come. 


Getting  Married  265 

The  Bishop  ftaking  off  his  ring  and  handing  it  to 
Hotchkiss]      Oblige  nic  by  undertaking  the  mission. 

HoTCHKiss.      But  how  am  I  to  know  the  lady? 

Collins.  She  has  gone  to  the  church  in  state,  sir, 
and  will  be  attended  by  a  Beadle  with  a  mace.  He  will 
point  her  out  to  you;  and  he  will  take  the  front  seat  of 
the  carriage  on  the  way  back. 

Hotchkiss.  No,  by  heavens!  Forgive  me,  Bishop; 
but  you  are  asking  too  much.  I  ran  away  from  the 
Boors  because  I  was  a  snob.  I  run  away  from  the 
Beadle  for  the  same  reason.  I  absolutely  decline  the 
mission. 

The  General  \ rising  impressivelj/]  Be  good  enough 
to  give  me  that  ring.  Mr  Hotchkiss. 

Hotchkiss.      With   pleasure.      [He  hands  it  to  him]. 

The  General.  I  shall  have  the  great  pleasure,  ^Ir 
Alderman,  in  waiting  on  the  Mayoress  witli  the  Bishop's 
orders ;  and  I  shall  be  proud  to  return  with  municipal 
honors.  [He  stalks  out  gallantly,  Collins  rising  for  a 
vwinent  to  bow  to  him  with  marked  dignity]. 

Reginald.  Boxer  is  rather  a  fine  old  josser  in  his 
way. 

Hotchkiss.  His  uniform  gives  him  an  unfair  ad- 
vantage. He  will  take  all  the  attention  off  the 
Beadle. 

Collins.  I  think  it  would  be  as  well,  my  lord,  to  go 
on  Avith  the  contract  while  we're  waiting.  The  truth  is, 
we  shall  none  of  us  have  much  of  a  look-in  when  Mrs 
George  comes ;  so  we  had  better  finish  the  writing  part  of 
the  business  before  she  arrives. 

Hotchkiss.  I  think  I  have  the  preliminaries  down 
all  right.  [Reading]  '  Memorandum  of  Agreement 
made  this  day  of  blank  blank  between  blank  blank  of 
blank  blank  in  the  County  of  blank,  Esquire,  hereinafter 
called  the  Gentleman,  of  the  one  part,  and  blank  blank 
of  blank  in  the  County  of  blank,  hereinafter  called  the 


266  Getting  Married 

Lady,  of  the  other  part,  whereby  it  is  declared  and  agreed 
as  follows.' 

Leo  [rising]  You  might  remember  your  manners, 
Sinjon.  The  lady  comes  rirst.  [She  goes  behind  him 
and  stoops  to  look  at  the  draft  over  his  shoulder]. 

HoTcuKiss.  To  be  sure.  I  beg  your  pardon.  [lie 
alters  the  draft]. 

Leo.  And  you  have  got  only  one  lady  and  one  gen- 
tleman.    There  ought  to  be  two  gentlemen. 

Collins.  Oh,  thats  a  mere  matter  of  form,  maam. 
Any  number  of  ladies  or  gentlemen  can  be  put  in. 

Leo.  Not  any  number  of  ladies.  Only  one  lady. 
Besides,  that  creature  wasnt  a  lady. 

Reginald.  You  shut  your  head,  Leo.  This  is  a  gen- 
eral sort  of  contract  for  everybody :  it's  not  your  con- 
tract. 

Leo.      Then  what  use  is  it  to  me? 

HoTCHKiss.  You  will  get  some  hints  from  it  for  your 
own  contract. 

Edith.  J  hope  tliire  will  be  no  hinting.  Let  us  have 
the  plain  straightforward  truth  and  nothing  but  the 
truth. 

Collins.  Yes,  yes,  miss:  it  will  be  all  right.  Theres 
nothing  underhand,  I  assure  you.  It's  a  model  agree- 
ment, as  it  were. 

Edith    [iincouvinced]      I  hope  .so. 

HoTcnKiss.  What  is  the  first  clause  in  an  agreement, 
usually.''     You  know,  Mr  Alderman. 

Collins  [at  a  loss]  Well,  sir,  the  Town  Clerk  always 
sees  to  that.  Ive  got  out  of  the  habit  of  thinking  for 
myself  in  these  little  matters.  Perhaps  his  lordship 
knows. 

The  Bishop.  I'm  sorry  to  say  I  dont.  But  Soamcs 
will  know.     Alice,  where  is  Soames.' 

Hotchkiss.      He's  in  there  [pointing  to  the  study]. 

The  Bishop   [to  his  n'ife]      Coax  him  to  join  us,  my 


I 


Getting  Married  267 

love.  [Mrs  Bridgenorth  goes  into  the  study],  Soames 
is  my  chaplain,  Mr  Collins.  The  great  difficultv  about 
Bishops  in  the  Church  of  England  to-day  is  that  the  af- 
fairs of  the  diocese  make  it  necessary  that  a  Bishop 
should  be  before  everything  a  man  of  business.  ea]>able 
of  sticking  to  his  desk  for  sixteen  hours  a  day.  But  the 
result  of  having  Bisliops  of  this  sort  is  that  the  spiritual 
interests  of  the  Church,  and  its  influence  on  the  souls 
and  imaginations  of  the  people,  very  soon  begins  to  go 
rapidly  to  the  devil — 

Edith  [shocked]      Papa! 

The  Bishop.  I  am  speaking  technically,  not  in  Box- 
er's manner.  Indeed  the  Bishojis  themselves  went  so  far 
in  tliat  direction  that  they  gained  a  reputation  for  being 
spiritually  the  stupidest  men  in  the  country  and  commer- 
cially the  sliarpest.  I  found  a  way  out  of  this  difficulty. 
Soames  was  my  solicitor.  I  found  that  Soames,  though  a 
\ery  capable  man  of  business,  liad  a  romantic  secret  his- 
tory. His  father  was  an  eminent  Nonconformist  divine 
who  habitually  spoke  of  tlie  Church  of  England  as  The 
Scarlet  Woman.  Soames  became  secretly  converted  to 
Anglicanism  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  He  longed  to  take 
holy  orders,  but  didnt  dare  to,  because  his  father  had  a 
weak  heart  and  habitually  threatened  to  drop  dead  if 
anybody  hurt  his  feelings.  You  may  have  noticed  that 
people  with  weak  hearts  are  the  tyrants  of  English  fam- 
ily life.  So  poor  Soames  had  to  become  a  solicitor. 
When  his  father  died — by  a  curious  stroke  of  poetic  jus- 
tice he  died  of  scarlet  fever,  and  was  found  to  have  had 
a  perfectly  sound  heart — I  ordained  Soames  and  made 
him  my  chaplain.  He  is  now  quite  happy.  He  is  a  celi- 
bate; fasts  strictly  on  Fridays  and  throughout  Lent; 
wears  a  cassock  and  biretta ;  and  has  more  legal  business 
to  do  than  ever  he  had  in  his  old  office  in  Ely  Place. 
And  he  sets  me  free  for  the  spiritual  and  scholarly  pur- 
suits proper  to  a  Bishop. 


2G8  Getting  Married 

Mrs  Bridgenorth  [coming  back  from  the  study  tvith 
a  knitting  basketl  Here  he  is.  [She  resumes  her  seat, 
and   knits]. 

Soames  comes  in  in  cassock  and  biretta.  He  salutes 
the  company  by  l)lcssiiig  them  tcith  tn'O  fingers. 

HoTCHKiss.  Take  my  place,  Mr  Soames.  [He  gives 
up  his  chair  to  him,  and  retires  to  the  oak  chest,  on  n'hic'u 
he  scats  Jiimself]. 

The  Bishop.  No  longer  Mr  Soames,  Sinjon.  Father 
Anthony. 

Soames  [taking  his  seat]  I  was  christened  Oliver 
Cromwell  Soames.  My  father  had  no  right  to  do  it.  I 
have  taken  the  name  of  Anthony.  \\  lun*  you  become 
parents,  younp  gentlemen,  be  very  careful  not  t<i  label 
a  helpless  child  with  views  which  it  may  come  to  hold  in 
abhorrence. 

The  Bishop.  Has  Alice  ex})lained  to  you  the  nature 
of  the  document  we  are  drafting.'* 

Soames.      She  has  indeed. 

Lesbia.      That  sounds  as  if  you  disapproved. 

Soames.  It  is  not  for  me  to  approve  or  disapprove. 
I  do  the  work  that  comes  to  my  hand  from  my  ecclesias- 
tical sujx-rior. 

The  Bishop.  Dont  be  uncharitable,  Anthony.  You 
must  give  us  your  best  advice. 

Soames.  My  advice  to  you  all  is  to  do  your  duty  by 
taking  the  Christian  vows  of  celibacy  and  poverty.  The 
Church  was  founded  to  put  an  end  to  marriage  and  to 
put  an  end  to  i)roperty. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  But  how  could  the  world  go  on. 
Anthony .'' 

Soames.  Do  your  duty  and  see.  Doing  your  duty  is 
your  business:  keeping  the  world  going  is  in  higher 
hands. 

Lesbia.      Anthony:  youre  impossible. 

Soames   [taking  up  his  pen]      You  wont  take  my  ad- 


Getting  JSlarried  269 

\iee.  1  didnt  expect  you  would.  Well,  I  await  your 
instructions. 

Reginald.  We  got  stuck  on  the  first  clause.  What 
should  we  begin  with  ? 

SoAMES.  It  is  usual  to  begin  with  the  term  of  the 
contract. 

Edith.      What  docs  that  mean.'' 

SoAMES.  The  term  of  years  for  which  it  is  to  hold 
good. 

Leo.      But  this  is  a  marriage  contract. 

So  AMES.  Is  the  marriage  to  be  for  a  year,  a  week,  or 
a  day.'' 

Reginald.  Come,  I  say,  Anthony !  Youre  worse 
than  any  of  us.     A  day ! 

Soames.  Off  the  path  is  off  the  path.  An  inch  or  a 
mile :  what  docs  it  matter  ? 

Leo.  If  the  marriage  is  not  to  be  for  ever,  I'll  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  call  it  immoral  to  have  a  mar- 
riage for  a  term  of  years.  If  the  people  dont  like  it  they 
can  get  divorced. 

Reginald.  It  ouglit  to  be  for  just  as  long  as  the  two 
people  like.     Thats  w-hat  I  say. 

Collins.  They  may  not  agree  on  the  point,  sir.  It's 
often  fast  with  one  and  loose  with  the  other. 

Lesbia.  I  should  say  for  as  long  as  the  man  behaves 
himself. 

The  Bishop.  Suppose  the  woman  doesnt  behave  her- 
self? 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  The  woman  may  have  lost  all 
her  chances  of  a  good  marriage  with  anybody  else.  She 
should  not  be  cast  adrift. 

Reginald.  So  may  the  man!  What  about  his 
I:orae? 

Leo.  The  wife  ought  to  keep  an  eye  on  him,  and  see 
tliat  he  is  comfortable  and  takes  care  of  himself  properly. 
The  other  man  wont  want  her  all  the  time. 


270  Getting  Married 

Lesbia.      There  may  not  be  another  man. 

Leo.     Then  wljy  on  earth  should  she  leave  him? 

I>EsuiA.      Because  she  wants  to. 

Leo.  Oh,  if  people  are  goin<;  to  be  let  do  wiiat  they 
want  to,  then  I  call  it  simple  immorality.  [She  goes 
itidigtuintli/  to  the  oak  chest,  and  perches  herself  on  it 
close  beside  Ilotchkiss]. 

Re(jinali)  [Tvatching  thetn  sourly]  You  do  it  your- 
self, dont  you? 

Leo.  Oh,  thats  quite  different.  Dont  make  foolish 
witticisms,  Rejjy. 

The  IJisiioi'.  We  dont  seem  to  be  getting  on.  What 
do  you  say,   Mr  Aldernian? 

C'oM.iNs.  Well,  my  lord,  you  see  people  do  persist  in 
talking  as  if  marriages  was  all  of  one  sort.  But  theres 
almost  as  many  different  sorts  of  marriages  as  theres  dif- 
ferent sorts  of  people.  Theres  the  young  things  that 
marry  for  love,  not  knowing  what  thevre  doing,  and  the 
old  tilings  tli.'it  marry  for  money  and  comfort  and  coni- 
j)ani<)iisliip.  TIutcs  the  peoj)le  that  marry  for  children. 
Theres  the  jieople  that  dont  intend  to  have  children  and 
that  arnt  tit  to  have  them.  Theres  the  people  that  marry 
because  they  re  so  much  run  after  by  the  other  sex  that 
they  have  to  put  a  stop  to  it  somehow.  Theres  the  peo- 
ple that  want  to  try  a  new  experience,  and  the  people 
that  want  to  hue  done  with  exj^eriences.  How  are  you 
to  please  them  all?  Why,  youU  want  half  a  dozen  dif- 
ferent sorts  of  eontrnct. 

The  Bishop.  Well,  if  so,  let  us  draw  them  all  up. 
Let  us  face  it. 

Reginald.  Why  should  we  be  held  togetjier  whether 
we  like  it  or  not?  Thats  the  question  thats  at  the  bottom 
of  it  all. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.     Because  of  the  children,  Rejjy. 

Collins.  But  even  then,  maam,  why  should  we  be 
held  together  when  thats  all  over — when  the  girls  are 


Getting  :MaiTied  271 

married  and  the  boys  out  in  the  world  and  in  business 
for  themselves?  When  thats  done  with,  the  real  work  of 
the  marriage  is  done  with.  If  the  two  like  to  stay  to- 
gether, let  them  stay  together.  But  if  not,  let  them  part, 
as  old  people  in  the  workhouses  do.  Theyve  had  enough 
of  one  another.  Theyve  found  one  another  out.  Why 
should  they  be  tied  together  to  sit  there  grudging 
and  hating  and  spiting  one  another  like  so  many  do.^ 
Put  it  twentv  vears  from  the  birth  of  the  youngest 
child. 

SoAMES.      How  if  there  be  no  children .'' 

Collins.     Let  em  take  one  another  on  liking. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.     Collins ! 

Leo.     You  wicked  old  man ! 

The  Bishop   [rcnwustrating'l      My  dear,  my  dear! 

Lesbia.  And  what  is  a  woman  to  live  on,  pray,  when 
she  is  no  longer  liked,  as  you  call  it? 

Soames  [with  sardonic  formalUy]  It  is  proposed  that 
the  term  of  the  agreement  be  twenty  years  from  the  birth 
of  the  youngest  child  when  there  are  children.  Any 
amendment  ? 

Leo.  I  protest.  It  must  be  for  life.  It  would  not 
be  a  marriage  at  all  if  it  were  not  for  life. 

Soames.  Mrs  Reginald  Bridgenorth  proposes  life. 
Any  seconder? 

Leo.     Dont  be  soulless,  Anthony. 

Lesbia.  I  have  a  ver}'  important  amendment.  If 
there  are  any  children,  the  man  must  be  cleared  com- 
pletely out  of  the  house  for  two  years  on  each  occasion. 
At  such  times  he  is  superfluous,  importunate,  and  ri- 
diculous. 

Collins.      But  where  is  he  to  go.  miss? 

Lesbia.  He  can  go  where  he  likes  as  long  as  he  does 
not  bother  the  mother. 

Reginald.     And  is  she  to  be  left  lonely — 

Lesbia.      Lonely !     With  her  child.     The  poor  woman 


272  Getting  Married 

would  be  only  too  glad  to  have  a  moment  to  herself. 
Dont  be  absurd.  Rejjy. 

RE(iiNALD.  That  father  is  to  be  a  wandering 
wretched  outeast,  living  at  his  club,  and  seeing  nobody 
but  his  friends'  wives ! 

Lesbia    [ironically]      Poor  fellow! 

HoTCHKiss.  The  friends'  wives  are  perhaps  the  solu- 
tion of  the  problem.  You  see,  their  husbands  will  also 
be  outcasts;  and  the  poor  ladies  will  occasionally  pine 
for  male  society. 

Lesbia.  There  is  un  reason  why  a  mother  should  not 
have  m.-sle  society.  W  h.it  sli<-  clearly  sliould  not  have  is 
a  husband. 

SoAMEs.     Anything  else,  Miss  Grantham.'* 

Lesbia.  Yes:  I  must  have  my  own  separate  house,  or 
my  own  separate  part  of  a  house.  Boxer  smokes:  I  cant 
enchire  tobacco.  Boxer  believes  that  an  open  window 
means  death  from  c«)ld  and  exposure  to  the  night  air:  I 
nuist  have  fresh  air  always.  We  can  be  friends;  but  we 
cant  live  together;  and  that  must  be  put  in  the  agree- 
ment. 

Edith.  Ive  no  objection  to  smoking;  and  as  to  open- 
ing the  windows,  Cecil  will  of  course  have  to  do  what  is 
best  for  his  health. 

The  Bishop.  Who  is  to  be  the  judge  of  that,  my 
dear .''     You  or  he  r 

Edith.  Neither  of  us.  We  must  do  what  the  doctor 
orders. 

Reginald.      Doctor  be — ! 

Leo  [admonitorili/]     Rejjy! 

Reginald  [to  Soames]  You  take  my  tip,  Anthony. 
Put  a  clause  into  that  agreement  that  the  doctor  is  to 
have  no  say  in  the  job.  It's  bad  enough  for  the  two  peo- 
ple to  be  married  to  one  another  without  their  both  being 
married  to  the  doctor  as  well. 

Lesbia.      That  reminds  me  of  something  very  impor- 


Getting  ^Married  273 

tant.  Boxer  believes  in  vacciruiation :  I  do  not.  There 
must  be  a  clause  that  I  am  to  deeide  on  such  questions 
as  I  think  best. 

Leo  [to  the  Bishop]  Baptism  is  nearly  as  important 
as  vaccination  :  isnt   it  ? 

The  Bishop.      It  used  to  be  considered  so,  my  dear. 

Leo.  Well,  Sinjon  scotfs  at  it:  he  says  that  god- 
fathers are  ridiculous.     I  must  be  allowed  to  decide. 

Reginald.  Theyll  be  his  children  as  well  as  yours, 
you  know. 

Leo.      Dont  be  indelicate,  Rejjy. 

Edith.  You  are  forgetting  the  very  important  matter 
of  money. 

Collins.     Ah!     Money!     Now  we're  coming  to  it! 

Edith.  When  I'm  married  I  shall  have  practically  no 
money  except  what  I  shall  earn. 

The  Bishop.  I'm  sorry,  Cecil.  A  Bishop's  daughter 
is  a  poor  man's  daughter. 

Sykes.  But  surely  you  dont  imagine  that  I'm  going 
to  let  Edith  work  when  we're  married.  I'm  not  a  rich 
man;  but  Ive  enough  to  spare  her  that;  and  when  my 
mother  dies — 

Edith.  What  nonsense !  Of  course  I  shall  work 
when  I'm  married.     I  shall  keep  your  house. 

Sykes.     Oh,  that ! 

Reginald.      You  call  that  work? 

Edith.  Dont  you  .^  I>eo  used  to  do  it  for  nothing; 
so  no  doubt  you  thought  it  wasnt  work  at  all.  Does  your 
present  housekeeper  do  it  for  nothing? 

Reginald.  But  it  will  be  part  of  your  duty  as 
a  wife. 

Edith.  Not  under  this  contract.  I'll  not  have  it  so. 
If  I'm  to  keep  the  house,  I  shall  expect  Cecil  to  pay  me 
at  least  as  well  as  he  would  pay  a  hired  housekeeper. 
I'll  not  go  begging  to  him  every  time  I  want  a  new  dress 
or  a  cab  fare,  as  so  many  women  have  to  do. 


274 


Gettiiiii:  Married 


Sykes.  You  know  vrry  w<  11  I  would  grudge  you 
nothing,  Edif. 

Edith.  Tlit-n  doiit  grudgt-  iiu-  my  silf -respect  and 
indept-ndcnce.  I  insist  on  it  in  fairness  to  you,  Cecil, 
because  in  this  way  there  will  he  a  fund  belonging  solely 
to  ine;  and  if  Slattox  takes  an  action  against  you  for 
anything  I  say,  you  can  pay  the  damages  and  stop  the 
interest  out  of  my  salary. 

SoA.MKs.  You  forget  that  under  this  contract  he  will 
not  be  liable,  because  you  will  not  be  liis  wife  in  law. 

EuiTH.      Nonsense  I     Of  course   I  shall  be  his  wife. 

Collins  [his  curiosity  roused]  Is  SlaUox  taking  an 
action  against  you,  miss.'  Slatto.x  is  on  the  Council  with 
me.     Could  I  settle  it."* 

Edith.  He  lias  not  taken  an  action;  but  Cecil  savs  he 
will. 

Collins.      \\'hat  for.  miss,  if  I  may  ask.' 

Edith.  Sl/ittox  is  a  liar  and  a  thief;  and  it  is  my  duty 
to  expose  him. 

Collins.  Vt)u  surprise  me.  miss.  Of  course  Slnttox 
is  in  a  manner  of  speaking  a  liar.  If  I  may  say  so  with- 
out offence,  we're  all  liars,  if  it  was  only  to  s])are  one 
another's  feelings.  But  I  shouldnt  call  Slattox  a  thief. 
He's  not  all  that  he  should  be,  perhaps;  but  he  pays  his 
way. 

Edith.  If  that  is  only  your  nice  way  of  saying  that 
Slattox  is  entirely  unHt  to  have  two  hundred  girls  in  his 
power  as  absolute  slaves,  then  I  shall  say  that  too  about 
him  at  the  very  next  public  meeting  I  address.  He  steals 
their  wages  under  jiretence  of  fining  them.  He  steals 
their  food  under  pretence  of  buying  it  for  them.  He  lies 
when  he  denies  having  done  it.  And  he  does  other 
things,  as  you  evidently  know.  Collins.  Therefore  I  give 
you  notice  that  I  shall  expose  him  before  all  England 
without  the  least  regard  to  the  consequences  to  myself. 

Sykes.     Or  to  me.' 


Getting  Married  275 

Edith.  I  take  equal  risks.  Suppose  you  felt  it  to 
be  your  duty  to  shoot  Slattox.  Mhat  would  become  of  me 
and  the  children?  I'm  sure  I  dont  want  anylwdy  to  be 
shot:  not  even  Slattox;  but  if  tlir  j)ublie  never  will  t-ike 
any  notice  of  even  the  most  crying  evil  until  somebody 
is  shot,  what  arc  pe«)j)le  to  do  but  shoot  somibody.^ 

SoAMEs  [inexorahli/]  I'm  waiting  for  my  instructions 
as  to  the  term  of  the  agreement. 

Regin.\ld  [impatiently,  leaving  the  hearth  and  going 
behind  Soatues]  It's  no  good  talking  all  over  the  shoj) 
like  this.  We  shall  be  here  all  day.  I  j)rojH)se  that  the 
a<rreeiiunt   holds  good   until  the  jjartics  are  divorced. 

SoAMEs.  They  cant  be  divorced.  They  will  not  be 
married. 

REC.iNALn.  But  if  they  cant  be  divorced,  then  tliis 
•will  be  worse  than  marriage. 

Mrs  IJiinxiEXORTH.  Of  course  it  will.  Do  stop  this 
nonsense.     Why,  who  are  the  children  to  belong  to.-* 

Lesbia.  We  have  already  settled  that  they  are  to  be- 
long to  the  mother. 

Reginald.  No:  I'm  dashed  if  you  have.  I'll  fight 
for  the  ownership  of  my  own  children  tooth  and  nail; 
and  so  will  a  good  many  other   fellows,   I   can  tell  you. 

Edith.  It  seems  to  me  that  they  should  be  divided 
between  the  parents.  If  Cecil  wishes  any  of  the  children 
to  be  his  exclusively,  he  should  ])ay  a  certain  sum  for 
the  risk  and  trouble  of  bringing  them  into  the  world :  say 
a  thousand  pounds  apiece.  The  interest  on  this  could  go 
towards  the  support  of  the  child  as  long  as  we  live  to- 
gether. But  the  principal  would  be  my  property.  In 
that  way,  if  Cecil  took  the  child  away  from  me,  I  should 
at  least  be  paid  for  what  it  had  cost  me. 

Mrs  Briugenorth  \putiing  dorrn  her  knitting  in 
amozement]      Edith!     Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing!! 

Edith.     Well,  how  else  do  you  propose  to  settle  it? 

The    Bishop.     There   is   such   a   thing   as   a   favorite 


270 


Gcttiner  Married 


child.  V.'liat  .'ilioiit  tlu'  youngest  child — the  Benjamin — 
the  child  of  its  parents'  matured  streiigth  and  charity, 
always  l)etter  treated  and  Ix'tter  loved  than  the  unfortu- 
nate eldest  children  of  their  youtiiful  ignorance  and  wil- 
fulness? Which  j)ar«nt  is  to  own  the  youngest  child, 
payment  or  no  paynnnt? 

Collins.  'I'heres  a  third  party,  my  lord.  Tlieres  the 
child  itself.  My  wife  is  so  fond  of  her  children  that 
they  cant  call  their  lives  their  own.  They  all  run 
away  from  home  to  escape  from  her.  A  child  hasnt  a 
grown-up  person's  apj)etite  for  alTection.  A  little  of 
it  goes  a  long  way  with  them;  and  they  like  a  good 
imitatioti  of  it  better  than  the  r<al  thing,  as*every  nurse 
knows. 

St)AMKS.  Are  you  s>ire  that  any  of  us,  young  or  old, 
like  the  real  thing  as  well  as  we  like  an  artistic  imitation 
of  it.^  Is  not  the  r«-al  thing  accursed.'  Are  not  the  best 
beloved  always  the  good  actors  rather  than  tlie  true  suf- 
ferers.'' Is  not  love  always  falsified  in  novels  and  plays 
to  make  it  endurable.'  I  have  noticed  in  myself  a  great 
delight  in  pictures  of  th«'  Saints  and  of  Our  Lady;  but 
when  I  fall  urider  that  most  terrible  curse  of  the  priest's 
lot,  the  curse  of  .Josepli  pursued  by  the  wife  of  Potiphar, 
I   am  invariably   repelled  and  terrified. 

HoTciiKiss.  Are  you  now  speaking  as  a  saint,  Father 
Antiiony,  or  as  a  solicitor.'' 

SoAMKs.  There  is  no  difTerence.  There  is  not  one 
Christian  rule  for  solicitors  and  another  for  saints.  Their 
luarts  are  alike;  and  their  way  of  salvation  is  along  the 
same  road. 

■ruE  Bishop.  But  "  few  there  be  that  find  it."  Can 
you  find  it  for  us,  Anthony? 

SoAMEs.  It  lies  broad  before  you.  It  is  the  way  to 
destruction  that  is  narrow  and  tortuous.  Marriage  is  an 
abomination  which  the  Church  was  founded  to  cast  out 
and  replace  by  the  communion  of  saints.      I   learnt  that 


Getting  Married  277 

from  every  marriage  settlement  I  drew  up  as  a  solicitor 
no  less  than  from  inspired  revelation.  You  have  set 
yourselves  here  to  put  your  sin  before  you  in  black  and 
white;  and  you  cant  agree  upon  or  endure  one  article 
of  it. 

Sykes.  It's  certainly  rather  odd  that  the  whole  thing 
seems  to  fall  to  pieces  the  moment  you  touch  it. 

TnK  Bishop.  You  see,  when  you  give  the  devil  fair 
play  he  loses  his  case.  He  has  not  been  able  to  produce 
even  the  first  clause  of  a  working  agreement;  so  I'm 
afraid  we  cant  wait  for  him  any  longer. 

Leshia.  Then  the  eommunity  will  have  to  do  without 
my  ehildrin. 

Edith.      And  Cecil  will  have  to  do  without  me. 

Leo  [gctttiitr  off  the  chest]  And  I  positively  will 
not  marry  Sinjon  if  he  is  not  clever  enough  to  make 
some  provision  for  my  looking  after  Rejjy.  [She  leaves 
Hotchkiss,  and  goes  back  to  her  chair  rt  the  end  of  the 
table  behind  Mrs  Bridgenorth]. 

Mus  IJiuncENORTH.  And  the  world  will  come  to  an 
end   with   this    generation.    I    su]i]K)se. 

Collins.      Cant  nothing  be  done,  my  lord? 

The  Bishop.  You  can  make  divorce  reasonable  and 
decent :  that  is  all. 

Lesbia.  Thank  you  for  nothing.  If  you  will  only 
make  marriage  reasonable  and  decent,  you  can  do  as 
you  like  about  divorce.  I  have  not  stated  my  deepest 
objection  to  marriage;  and  I  dont  intend  to.  There  are 
certain  rights  I  will  not  give  any  person  over  me. 

Reginald.  Well,  I  think  it  jolly  hard  that  a  man 
should  support  his  wife  for  years,  and  lose  the  chance 
of  getting  a  really  good  wife,  and  then  have  her  refuse 
to  be  a  wife  to  him. 

Lesbia.  I'm  not  going  to  discuss  it  with  you,  Rejjy. 
If  your  sense  of  personal  honor  doesnt  make  you  under- 
stand, nothing  will. 


278  Getting  Married 

SoAMES  [implacably]  I'm  still  awaiting  my  instruc- 
tions. 

They  look  at  one  another,  each  waiting  for  one  of  the 
others  to  suggest  something.     Silence. 

Reginald  [blankly]  I  suppose,  after  all,  marriage  is 
better  than — well,  than  the  usual  alternative. 

SoAMEs  [turning  fiercely  on  him]  What  right  have 
you  to  say  so.^  You  know  that  the  sins  that  are  wasting 
and  maddening  this  unhappy  nation  are  those  committed 
in  wedlock. 

Collins.  Well,  the  single  ones  cant  afford  to  in- 
dulge their  affections  the  same  as  married  people. 

SoAMES.  Away  with  it  all,  I  say.  You  have  your 
Master's  commandments.     Obey  them. 

HoTCHKiss  [ris/Hii-  and  leaning  on  the  back  of  the 
chair  left  vacant  by  the  General]  I  really  must  point 
out  to  you,  Father  Anthony,  that  the  early  Christian  rules 
of  life  were  not  made  to  last,  because  the  early  Christiajis 
did  not  believe  that  the  world  itself  was  going  to  last. 
Now  we  know  that  we  shall  have  to  go  through  with  it. 
We  have  found  that  there  are  millions  of  years  behind 
us;  and  we  know  that  that  there  arc  millions  before  us. 
Mrs  Bridgenorth's  question  remains  unanswered.  How 
is  the  world  to  go  on  ?  You  say  that  that  is  our  business 
— that  it  is  the  business  of  Providence.  But  the 
modern  Christian  view  is  that  we  are  here  to  do  the 
business  of  Providence  and  nothing  else.  The  question  is, 
how.  Am  I  not  to  use  my  reason  to  find  out  why.'' 
Isnt  that  what  niA'  reason  is  for?  Well,  all  my  reason 
tHls  me  at  present  is  that  you  are  an  impracticable 
lunatic. 

SoAMES.     Does  that  help? 

HoTCHKISS.       No. 

SoAMEs.     Then  pray  for  light. 

HoTCHKiss.  No:  I  am  a  snob,  not  a  beggar.  [He 
sits  down  in  the  General's  chair]. 


Getting  Married  279 

Collins.  We  dont  seem  to  be  getting^  on,  do  we? 
Miss  Edith:  you  and  Mr  Sykes  had  better  go  off  to 
church  and  settle  the  right  and  wrong  of  it  afterwards. 
ItU  ease  your  minds,  believe  me:  I  speak  from  experi- 
ence.    You  will  burn  your  boats,  as  one  might  say. 

SoAMEs.  We  should  never  burn  our  boats.  It  is 
death  in  life. 

Collins.  Well,  Father,  I  will  say  for  you  that  you 
have  views  of  your  own  and  are  not  afraid  to  out  with 
them.  But  some  of  us  are  of  a  more  cheerful  disposition. 
On  the  Borough  Council  now,  you  would  be  in  a  minority 
of  one.     You  must  take  human  nature  as  it  is. 

SoAMES.  Upon  what  compulsion  must  I?  I'll  take 
divine  nature  as  it  is.     I'll  not  liold  a  candle  to  the  devil. 

The  Bishop.  Thats  a  very  unchristian  way  of  treat- 
ing the  devil. 

Reginald.  Well,  we  dont  seem  to  be  getting  any  fur- 
ther, do  we  ? 

The  Bishop.  Will  vou  give  it  up  and  get  married, 
Edith  .^ 

Edith.  No.  What  I  propose  seems  to  me  quite  rea- 
sonable. 

The  Bishop.     And  you,  Lesbia? 

Lesbia.      Never. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  Never  is  a  long  word,  Lesbia. 
Dont  say  it. 

Lesbia  [with  a  flash  of  temper]  Dont  pity  me,  Alice, 
please.  As  I  said  before,  I  am  an  English  lady,  quite 
prepared  to  do  without  anything  I  cant  have  on  hon- 
orable conditions. 

Soames  [after  a  silence  expressive  of  utter  deadlock] 
I  am  still  awaiting  my  instructions. 

Reginald.  Well,  we  dont  seera  to  be  getting  along, 
do  we.'' 

Leo  [out  of  patience]  You  said  that  before,  Rejjy. 
Do  not  repeat  yourself. 


280  Getting  ^Married 


<-> 


Reginald.  Oh,  bother!  [lie  goes  to  the  garden 
door  and  looks  out  gloomili/]. 

SoAMEs  [rising  with  the  paper  in  his  hands]  Psha ! 
[He  tears  it  in  pieces].     So  much  for  the  contract! 

The  Voice  of  The  Beadle.  By  your  leave  there, 
gentlemen.  Make  way  for  the  Mayoress.  Way  for  the 
worshipful  the  Ma\-oress,  my  lords  and  gentlemen.  [He 
comes  in  through  the  tower,  in  cocked  hat  and  gold- 
braided  overcoat,  hearing  the  borough  mace,  and  posts 
himself  at  the  entrance].  By  your  leave,  gentlemen,  way 
for  the  wnrsliij)ful  the  Mayoress. 

Collins  [moving  back  towards  the  wall]  Mrs 
George,  my  lord. 

Mrs  George  is  evcrji  inch  a  Maiforess  in  point  of  sty- 
lish dressing;  and  she  docs  it  very  well  indeed.  There 
is  nothing  cjuiet  about  Mrs  George:  she  is  not  afraid  of 
colors,  and  knows  how  to  make  the  viost  of  them.  Not 
at  all  a  lady  in  J.esbia's  use  of  the  term  as  a  class  label, 
she  proclaims  herself  to  the  first  glance  as  the  triumph- 
ant, pampered,  wilful,  intensely  alive  woman  who  has 
always  been  rich  among  poor  people.  In  a  historical 
museum  she  would  explain  Edward  the  Fourth's  taste  for 
shopkeepers'  wives.  Her  age,  which  is  certainly  40,  and 
might  be  oO,  is  carried  off  by  her  vitality,  her  resilient 
figure,  and  her  confident  carriage.  So  far,  a  remarkably 
well-preserved  woman.  But  her  beauty  is  wrecked,  like 
an  ageless  landscape  ravaged  by  long  and  fierce  war. 
Her  eyes  are  alive,  arresting  and  haunting;  and  there  is 
still  a  turn  of  delicate  beauty  and  pride  in  her  indom- 
ifnhle  chin;  but  her  cheeks  are  wasted  and  lined,  her 
mouth  writhen  and  piteous.  The  whole  face  is  a  battle- 
feld  of  the  passions,  quite  deplorable  until  she  speaks, 
when  an  alert  sense  of  fun  rejuvenates  her  in  a  moment, 
and  makes  her  company  irresistible. 

All  rise  except  Soames,  who  sits  down.  Leo  joins 
Reginald  at  the  garden  door.     Mrs  Bridge  north  hurries 


Getting  ^Married  281 


•t5 


to  the  tower  to  receive  her  guest,  and  gets  as  far  as 
Soames's  chair  when  Mrs  George  appears.  Hotchkiss, 
apparently  recognizing  her,  recoils  in  consternation  to 
the  study  door  at  the  furthest  corner  of  the  room  from 
her. 

Mrs  George  [coming  straight  to  the  Bishop  with  the 
ring  in  her  hand]  Here  is  your  ring,  my  lord;  and  here 
am  I.     It's  your  doing,  remember:  not  mine. 

The   Bishop.      Good  of  you  to  come. 

Mrs    Bhiuoexohth.      How    do   you   do,    Mrs    Collins? 

Mrs  George  [^'^ozh^'-  to  her  past  the  Bishop,  and  gaz- 
ing intently  at  her]      Are  you  his  wife? 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.     The  Bishop's  wife?     Yes. 

Mrs  George.  What  a  destiny !  And  you  look  like 
any  other  woman ! 

Mrs  Bridgenorth  {introducing  Lesbia]  My  sister, 
Miss  Grantham. 

Mrs  George.  So  strangely  mixed  up  with  the  story 
of  the  General's  life? 

The  Bishop.     You  know  the  story  of  his  life,  then? 

Mrs  George.  Not  all.  We  reached  the  house  be- 
fore he  brought  it  up  to  the  present  day.  But  enough 
to  know  the  part  played  in  it  by  Miss  Grantham. 

Mrs  Bridgenorth  [introducing  Leo]  Mrs  Reginald 
Bridgenorth. 

Reginald.     The  late  Mrs   Reginald  Bridgenorth. 

Leo.  Hold  your  tongue,  Rejjy.  At  least  have  the 
decency  to  wait  until  the  decree  is  made  absolute. 

Mrs  George  [to  Leo]  Well,  youve  more  time  to  get 
married  again  than  he  has,  havnt  you  ? 

Mrs  Bridgenorth  [introducing  Hotchkiss]  Mr  St 
John  Hotchkiss. 

Hotchkiss,  still  far  aloof  by  the  study  door,  bows. 

Mrs  George.  What !  That !  [She  makes  a  half 
tour  of  the  kitchen  and  ends  right  in  front  of  him]. 
Young  man:  do  you  remember  coming  into  my  shop  and 


282 


Getting  Married 


tilling  mc  that  my  husband's  coals  were  out  of  place  in 
your  cellar,  as  Nature  evidently  intended  them  for  the 
roof? 

HoTcHKiss.  1  rinieinber  that  deplorable  impertinence 
with  shame  and  confusion.  You  were  kind  enough  to 
answer  that  Mr  Collins  was  looking  out  for  a  clever 
young  m.in  to  write  advertisements,  and  that  I  could  take 
"the  job  if  I  liked. 

Mhs  CiEOHGK.      It's  still  Open.      [She  turns  to  Edith]. 

Mhs  Bhidoexohtii.  My  daughter  Kdith.  [She  come* 
totvanh  the  studi^  door  to  make  the  introduction]. 

Mrs  CtEORcjE.  The  bride  I  [Looking  at  Edith't 
dressing-j.ack«t  ]  Voure  not  going  to  get  marrit  d  like 
that,  are  you .' 

The  Bisiu)!'  [cominL^  round  the  table  to  Edith's  left] 
Thats  just  what  we  are  discussing.  Will  you  be  so  good 
as  to  join  us  and  allow  us  the  bcneHt  of  your  wisdom 
and  experience? 

Mrs  GEORtiE.  Do  you  want  the  Beadle  as  well? 
He's  a  married  man. 

They  all  turn  involuntarily  and  contemplate  the 
Beadle,   trho  sustains  their   i;a~e   with   digniti^. 

The  Bishop.  \\'e  think  there  are  already  too  many 
men  to  l)e  quite  fair  to  the  women. 

Mrs  George.  Right,  my  lord.  [She  ^oes  back  to 
the  torrer  and  addresses  the  lieadle]  Take  away  that 
bauble,  Josej)h.  Wait  for  me  wherever  you  find  yourself 
most  comfortable  in  tlie  neighborhood.  [The  lieadle 
nithdrau'S.  She  notices  Collins  for  the  first  time]. 
Hullo,  Bill:  youve  got  em  all  on  too.  Go  and  hunt  up  a 
drink  for  Joseph:  thcres  a  dear.  [Collins  goes  out.  She 
looks  at  Soames's  cassock  and  biretta]  What!  Another 
uniform!     Are  you  the  sexton?     [He  rises]. 

The   Bishop.      My  chaplain.   Father  Anthony. 

Mrs  George.  Oh  Lord  I  [To  Soames,  coaxingly] 
You  dont  mind,  do  vou? 


J 


Gettinf*-  Married  283 

SoAMES.      I  mind  iiothiiiij  but  my  duties. 

The   Bishop,      ^'ou  know  evt'ryhody  now,   I   think. 

Mrs  George  [turnins!  to  the  railed  chair\    Who's  this.-* 

The  Bishop.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Cecil.  Mr 
Sykes.     The  bridegroom. 

Mrs  George  [/o  .S';/'''^*1  Adorned  for  the  s.ierifiee, 
arnt  you.' 

Sykes.  It  seems  doubtful  whetlur  there  is  going  to 
be  any  sacrifice. 

Mrs  George.  \\'ell,  I  want  to  talk  to  the  women 
first.  Shall  we  go  upstairs  and  look  at  the  presents  and 
dresses.^ 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.      If  you  wish,  certainly. 

Re(;inali).  liut  the  men  want  to  hear  what  you  have 
to  say  too. 

Mrs  George.  I'll  talk  to  them  afterwards:  one  by 
one. 

HoTCHKiss    [to   himself]      Great  heavens! 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  This  way,  Mrs  Collins.  [She 
leads  the  tvay  out  through  the  totver,  followed  hif  Mrs 
George,  Lesbin,  Leo,  and  Edith]. 

The  Bishop.  Shall  we  try  to  get  through  the  last 
batch  of  letters  whilst  they  are  away,  Soames.'' 

SoAMES.  Yes,  certainly.  [7*0  Ilotchkiss,  who  is  in 
his  way]      Excuse  me. 

The  Bishop  and  Soajnes  go  into  the  study,  disturbing 
Ilotchkiss,  who,  plunged  in  a  strange  reverie,  lias  for- 
gotten where  he  is.  Awakened  by  Soames,  he  stares  dis- 
tractedly; then,  with  sudden  resolution,  goes  swiftly  to 
the  middle  of  the  kitchen. 

HoTCHKiss.  Cecil.  Rejjy.  [Startled  by  his  urgency, 
they  hurry  to  him].  I'm  frightfully  sorry  to  desert  on 
this  day ;  but  I  must  bolt.  This  time  it  really  is  pure 
cowardice.     I  cant  help  it. 

PiKGixALD.      What  are  you  afraid  of.' 

HoTCHKiss.      I   dont  know.     Listen  to  me.      I  was  a 


284  Getting  3Iarried 

young  fool  living  by  myself  in  London.  I  ordered  my 
first  ton  of  coals  from  tiiat  woman's  husband.  At  that 
time  I  did  not  know  that  it  is  not  true  economy  to  buy 
the  lowest  priced  article:  I  thought  all  coals  were  alike, 
and  tried  the  thirteen  shilling  kind  because  it  seemed 
cheap.  It  jjroved  unexpectedly  inferior  to  the  family 
Silkstone;  and  in  the  irritation  into  wliich  the  first  scuttle 
threw  me,  I  called  at  the  shop  and  made  an  idiot  of 
myself  as  she  described. 

SvKKs.      Well,  suj)jiose  you   did  !      Laugh   at   it,  man. 

HoTCHKiss.  At  that,  yes.  But  there  was  something 
worse.  Judge  of  my  horror  when,  calling  on  the  coal 
merchant  to  make  a  triHing  compl.iint  at  finding  my 
grate  acting  as  a  battery  of  (juiek-firing  guns,  and  being 
confronted  by  his  vulgar  wife,  I  felt  in  her  presence  an 
extrat)rdinary  sensation  of  unrest,  of  emotion,  of  unsat- 
isfied need.  I'll  not  disgust  you  with  details  of  the  mad- 
ness and  folly  that  followed  that  meeting.  But  it  went 
as  far  as  this:  that  I  actually  found  myself  prowling 
past  the  shop  at  night  under  a  sort  of  desperate  neces- 
sity to  be  near  some  })laee  wliere  she  had  been.  A  hide- 
ous temi)tation  to  kiss  the  doorstep  because  her  foot  had 
pressed  it  made  me  realize  how  mad  I  was.  I  tore  my- 
self away  from  London  by  a  supreme  effort;  but  I  was 
on  the  point  of  returning  like  a  needle  to  the  lodestone 
when  the  outbreak  of  the  war  saved  me.  On  the  field  of 
battle  the  infatuation  wore  off.  The  Billiter  affair  made 
a  new  man  of  me:  I  felt  that  I  had  left  the  follies  and 
puerilities  of  the  old  days  behind  me  for  ever.  But  half- 
aa-hour  ago — when  the  Bishop  sent  off  that  ring — a  siui- 
dcn  grip  at  the  base  of  my  heart  filled  me  with  a  name- 
less terror — me,  the  fearless !  I  recognized  its  cause 
when  she  walked  into  the  room.  Cecil :  this  woman  is  a 
harpy,  a  siren,  a  mermaid,  a  vampire.  There  is  only 
one  chance  for  me:  flight,  instant  precipitate  flight. 
Make  my  excuses.     Forget  me.      Farewell.      [He  makes 


Getting  ^Married  285 


'tr> 


for  the  door  and  is  confronted  by  Mrs  George  entering]. 
Too  late:  I'm  lost.  [He  turns  bach  and  throws  himself 
desperately  into  the  chair  nearest  the  study  door,  that 
being  the  furthest  away  from  her]. 

Mrs  George  \cotning  to  the  hearth  and  addressing 
Reginald]  Mr  Bridf^tnorth:  will  you  oblige  nie  by  leav- 
ing me  with  this  young  man.  1  want  to  talk  to  him  like 
a  mother,  on  your  business. 

Reginald.  Do,  niaam.  He  needs  it  badly.  Come 
along,  Sykes.      [He  goes  into  the  study]. 

Sykes   [looks  irresolutely  at  Hotchkiss]  —  ? 

HoTCHKiss.  Too  late:  you  cant  save  me  now,  Cecil. 
Go. 

Sykes  goes  into  the  study.  Mrs  George  strolls  across 
to  Hotchkiss  and  contemplates  hiin  curiously. 

Hotchkiss.  Useless  to  })rolong  this  agony.  [Ris- 
ing] Fatal  woman — if  woman  you  are  indeed  and  not  a 
fiend  in  human  form — 

Mrs  George.  Is  this  out  of  a  book.'  Or  is  it  your 
usual  society  small  talk? 

Hotchkiss  [recklessly]  Jibes  are  useless:  the  force 
that  is  sweeping  me  away  will  not  spare  you.  I  must 
know  the  worst  at  once.     What  was  your  father } 

Mrs  George.  A  licensed  victualler  who  married  his 
barmaid.     You  would  call  him  a  publican,  most  likely. 

Hotchkiss.  Then  you  are  a  woman  totally  beneath 
me.  Do  you  deny  it?  Do  you  set  up  any  sort  of  pre- 
tence to  be  my  equal  in  rank,  in  age,  or  in  culture? 

Mrs  George.  Have  you  eaten  anything  that  has  dis- 
agreed with  you? 

Hotchkiss  [witheringly]      Inferior! 

Mrs  George.   Thank  you.     Anything  else? 

Hotchkiss.  This.  I  love  you.  My  intentions  are 
not  honorable.  [She  shows  no  dismay].  Scream.  Ring 
the  bell.     Have  me  turned  out  of  the  house. 

Mrs  George    [with  sudden  depth  of  feeling]      Oh,  if 


28G  Gettin«^r  Married 

you  could  rfstort"  to  this  wasted  txhaustt-d  lit  art  oiu-  ray 
of  the  passion  that  once  •wtlU-d  up  at  the  glance — at  the 
touch  of  a  lover!  It's  you  who  would  scream  then,  young 
man.  Do  you  see  this  face,  once  fresh  and  rosy  like  your 
own,  now  scarred  and  riven  by  a  hundn d  hurnt-out 
tires  ? 

HoTcuKiss  [nildli^]  Slate  tires.  Thirteen  shillings  a 
ton.  I'ires  that  shoot  out  destructive  meteors,  lilinding 
and  hurning,  sending  m*  ii  into  the  streets  to  make  fools 
of  themselves. 

Mils  George.  You  seem  to  liave  got  it  pretty  had. 
Sinjon. 

HoT(  iiKiss.      Dont  dare  call  me  Sinjon. 

Mils  (iKoiKiF:.  My  name  is  Zenohia  .\lexandrina.  You 
may  call  m«-   I'olly  for  short. 

MoTcnKiss.  Your  name  is  Ashtt)r<th — Durga — there 
is  no  nanu-  yet  invented  malign  enough  for  you. 

Mrs  CiEoKGE  \sitiiup  (lotrn  cotrifortal)lif]  Come!  Do 
you  really  think  youre  better  suited  to  tliat  young  sauce- 
box than  her  husband?  You  enjoyed  her  company  wlun 
you  were  only  the  friend  of  the  family — when  there  was 
the  husbaiul  there  to  shew  otT  against  and  to  take  all  the 
responsibility.  -\re  you  sure  youU  enjoy  it  as  nnich 
wlien  you  are  the  husband.'*  She  isnt  clever,  you  know. 
She's  only  silly-clever. 

HoTCHKiss  \ uneasily  leaning  against  the  table  and 
holding  on  to  it  to  control  his  nervous  movements]  Need 
you  tell  me?  fiend  that  you  are! 

Mrs  Cieorgk.      You  amused  the  husband,  didnt  you? 

HoTcjiKiss.  He  has  more  real  sense  of  humor  than 
she.      He's  better  bred.      That  was  not  my  fault. 

Mrs  George.  My  husband  has  a  sense  of  humor 
too. 

HoTCHKiss.  The  coal  merchant? — I  mean  thr  slate 
merchant. 

Mrs  George   [appreciutively]     He  would  just  love  to 


Gettin«r  Married  287 

hear  you  talk.  He's  iHin  dull  lately  for  want  of  a  change 
of  company  and  a  bit  of  fresh  fun. 

HoTCHKiss  \fiiui;iTii^  a  chair  opposite  firr  and  sitting 
dutvn  nith  an  ovenlitne  attempt  at  studied  insolence\ 
.And  pray  what  is  your  wrttelR'd  husband's  vulvar  eon- 
vi\  iality   to  nie.' 

Mhk  (iEoH(;F..      Yon  love  nic? 

HoTfUKiss.      I  loathe  you. 

Mns  George.      It's  the  same  thing. 

HoT(  HKiss.      Then  I'm  lost. 

.Mas  (iK<>H(iK.  You  may  come  and  see  me  if  you 
promise  to  amuse  C/eor»;e. 

I  loreiiKi.M.s.  I'll  insult  him,  snetr  at  him,  wipe  my 
b()(»Ls  on  him. 

Mas  (iKORGE.  No  yt)U  wont,  dear  boy.  Youll  be  a 
perfect  gentleman. 

HoTciiKiss  \beaten :  appealing  to  Iter  mercy]  Zeno- 
bia — 

Mas  CiKOROE.      Polly,  please. 

HoTi  HKIS9.      Mrs  Collins — 

Mrs  George.     Sir.'' 

HoTCHKiss.  Something  stronger  than  my  reason  and 
common  sense  is  holding  my  hands  and  tearing  me  along. 
I  make  no  attempt  to  deny  that  it  can  drag  me  where 
you  please  and  make  me  do  what  you  like.  But  at  least 
let  me  know  your  soul  as  you  seem  to  know  mine.  Do 
▼ou  love  this  absurd  coal  merchant? 

Mrs  George.      Call  him  George. 

HoTCHKiss.      Do  you  love  your  Jorjy  Porjy? 

Mrs  George.  Oh.  I  dont  know  that  I  love  him.  He's 
my  husband,  you  know.  But  if  I  got  anxious  about 
George's  health,  and  I  thought  it  would  nourish  him,  I 
would  fry  you  with  onions  for  his  breakfast  and  think 
nothing  of  it.  George  and  I  are  good  friends.  George 
belongs  to  me.  Other  men  may  come  and  go;  but  George 
aoes  on  for  ever. 


288  Gettinnr  >[arricd 

HoxrHKlRS.  Yfs:  a  husbaiui  soon  brconios  nothing 
but  a  habit.  Listen:  I  suppose  this  ditcstabh-  fascina- 
tion you  have  for  me  is  h)ve. 

Mus  Geohoe.  Any  sort  of  feeling  for  a  woman  is 
called    love  nowadays. 

HoTCiiKlss.       Do  you  love  nn? 

Mus  CjEouge  [promptly]  My  love  is  not  ()uite  so 
cheap  an  article  as  th/it,  my  lad.  I  wouldiit  cross  the 
street  to  have  another  look  at  you — not  yet.  /in  not 
starvinjf  for  lo\e  like  the  robins  in  wint«T,  as  tlw  good 
ladies  youre  accustomed  to  are.  Voull  have  to  he  very 
clever,  and  very  good,  and  very  real,  if  yoi»  are  to  inter- 
est mc.  If  (Jeorge  takes  a  fancy  to  you,  and  you  amuse 
him  enough.  I'll  just  tolerate  you  coming  in  and  out  oc- 
casionally for — well,  say  a  month.  If  you  can  make  a 
fri«-nd  of  me  in  that  time  so  much  the  better  for  you. 
If  you  can  touch  my  po^r  dying  heart  «-ven  for  an  in- 
stant, I'll  bless  you,  and  icvcr  forget  you.  Vou  may  try 
— if  (leorge  takes  to  you. 

H0TCIIKIS8.      I'm  to  come  on  liking  for  the  month? 

.Mhs  CJeoroe.  On  condition  that  you  drop  .Mrs  Reg- 
inald. 

HoTt  iiKiss.  liut  she  wont  droj)  me.  Do  you  suppose 
I  evt-r  wanted  to  marry  her.'  I  was  a  homeless  bachelor; 
and  I  felt  (juite  hap|)y  at  tlieir  house  as  their  friend. 
Leo  was  an  amusing  little  devil;  but  I  liked  Reginald 
much  more  than  I  liked  her.  She  didnt  understand. 
One  day  she  came  to  me  and  told  me  that  the  inevitable 
had  happened.  I  had  tact  enough  not  to  ask  her  wh.-.t 
tne  inevitable  was;  and  I  gathered  presently  that  she  had 
told  Reginald  that  their  marriage  was  a  mistake  and  that 
she  loved  me  and  could  no  longer  see  me  breaking  my 
heart  for  her  in  suffering  silence.  What  could  I  say  ? 
^^^lat  could  I  do?  What  can  I  say  now?  What  can  I  dn 
now? 

Mrs   George.      Tell    her   that   the  habit  of   falling  in 


Getting  Married  289 

love  with  other  men's  wives  is  growing  on  3'ou ;  nnd  that 
I'm  your  l.ittst. 

HoTCHKiss.  What!  Throw  her  over  wluti  she  has 
thrown   Reginald  over  for  nu- ! 

Mas  CiKoiuJE  I  rJsJH^'j  Yini  wont  th(iir  Wry  will. 
Sorry  we  shant  nirrt  again:  1  should  have  likrd  to  see 
more  of  you  for  (ieorge's  sake,  (iood-bye  [she  tiioves 
away   from  liiiii  tuiiards  the  hearth]. 

HoreiiKlss   [appealing]      Zenobia — 

Mus.  Georce.  I  thought  1  had  made  a  difficult  con- 
quest. Now  I  see  you  are  only  one  of  those  poor  ))rtti- 
coat-hunting  creatures  that  any  woman  can  pick  up.  Not 
for  me,  thank  you.  \  Inexorable,  she  turns  totrards  the 
tower   to   go\. 

HoTtHKiss    [following]      Dont  be  an  ass,  Polly. 

Mks  CJEOHCiE   [stopping]      Thats  better. 

HoTCHKiss.  Cant  you  see  that  I  maynt  throw  Leo 
over  just  because  I  should  be  only  too  glad  to.  It  would 
be    dishonorable. 

Mas  (JKuHiiK.      Will  you  be  hap))y  if  you  ni.irry  her.'' 

HoTCHKiss.      No.  great  heaven.   NO  I 

Mas  George,  ^^'ill  she  be  ha{)))y  when  she  finds  you 
out } 

HoTCHKiss.  She's  incapable  of  happiness.  But  she's 
not  incapable  of  the  pleasure  of  Iwlding  a  man  against 
his  will. 

Mas  Geobge.  Right,  young  man.  Vou  will  tell  her, 
please,  that  you  love  me:  before  everybody,  mind,  the 
very  next  time  you  see  her. 

HoTCHKiss.     But — 

Mrs  George.  Those  are  my  orders,  Sinjon.  I  cant 
have  you  marry  another  woman  until  George  is  tired  of 
you. 

HoTCHKiss.  Oh,  if  I  only  didnt  selfishly  want  to 
obey  you  I 

The  General  comes  in  from  the  garden.     Mrs  George 


290  Getting  Married 

gors  half  rtay  to  thr  garden  door  to  speak  to  him. 
Hotchkiss  posts  himstlf  on  the  hearth. 

Mrs  CiEuKciK.      WhiTf  havf  you  bvc^^  all  this  time? 

Thk  CiKNKKAl-  I'm  afrnitl  my  iutvps  wrrt*  a  little 
ui)srt  by  our  conversation.  1  just  went  into  tiif  garilrn 
and  had  a  smokf.  I'm  all  right  now  [he  strolls  down  to 
the  study  door  ami  presently  takes  a  chair  at  that  end  of 
the  l>ig  tahle]. 

Mus  CiEuHciE.  A  smoke!  Why,  you  said  she  coiildiit 
brar  iL 

'I'liK  (lENERAL.  (i(K)d  liravfus  I  I  forgot !  It's  such 
a  natural  thing  to  do,  somehow.  , 

Lesbia  comes  in  through  the  ton-er. 

Mrs  George.      He's  been  smoking  ngnin. 

LEhiit.\.  So  my  nose  tells  me.  |.S'/ie  goes  to  the  end 
of  the  tahle  nearest  the  hearth,  and  sits  <lotrn\. 

The  (iK.NKRAL.  Lesbia :  I'm  very  sorry.  Hut  if  I 
g.iv«-  it  uj),  I  should  Iwcome  so  melancholy  and  irritable 
that  you  would  Ix-  the  first  to  implore  me  Uy  Lake  to  it 
again. 

Mrm  (iEoroe.  Tbats  true.  Women  drise  their  hus- 
b.nnds  intt)  nil  sorts  of  wickedness  to  ke«j)  them  in  good 
humor.  Sinjon:  Ik-  otY  with  you:  this  do«'snt  concern 
you. 

Lesdia.  IMease  dont  disturb  yourself,  .Sjrijon.  Box- 
er's broken  heart  has  been  worn  on  his  sleeve  too  long 
for  any  pretence  of  privacy. 

The  Ge.veral.  Vou  are  cruel,  Lesbia:  devilishly 
cruel.      ( //^  *«'*  down,  n-ounded]. 

I.esria.      Vou  are  vulgar,   Hoxer. 

Hotchkiss.  In  what  way.'  I  ask,  as  an  expert  in 
vulgarity. 

Lesbia.  In  t-wo  ways.  First,  he  talks  as  if  the  only 
thing  of  any  importance  in  life  was  which  particu- 
lar woman  he  shall  marry.  Second,  he  has  no  self- 
control. 


Gettiii^r  Married  2U1 

The  General.  \N'()imn  arc  not  all  the  sainr  to  me, 
Lesbia. 

Whs  CIkohge.  Wliy  should  tluy  be,  j)ray  ?  Women 
are  all  difTirent:  it's  tlu-  imn  who  are  all  the  same.  Hr- 
sides,  what  does  .Miss  (iraiitham  know  about  either  men 
or  womt-n .'      She's  j^ot  too  mueh  s«lf-eontrol. 

Lesuia  [tviiii'uiti<;  her  ei/t-s  and  lifting  her  chin  haui^li- 
tiltf]  And  pray  how  does  that  prevent  nie  from  knowing 
.as  nuieh  about  men  and  women  as  people  who  have  no 
St  If-eontrol .' 

.Mus  Cieohoe.  IJie.ausi-  it  frightens  people  into  Ixlnv- 
ing  themselves  before  you;  and  then  how  can  you  tell 
wliit  tluy  really  are?  Look  at  me!  I  was  a  spoilt 
lii'lil.  .\Iy  brothers  and  sisters  were  well  brought  up, 
like  .ill  ehildrtn  of  respeetable  publieans.  So  should  I 
have  been  if  I  hadnt  l>oen  the  youngest:  ten  years 
y«)ungtr  than  my  youngest  brother.  .My  j)nrents  were 
tireil  of  doing  their  duty  by  their  children  by  that  time; 
and  they  spoilt  me  for  .all  they  were  wortli.  I  never  knew 
what  it  was  to  want  money  or  anything  that  money  eould 
buy.  When  I  wanted  my  own  way,  I  had  nothing  to  do 
but  scream  for  it  till  I  got  it.  When  I  was  annoyed  / 
didnt  control  myself:  I  scratched  and  called  names.  Did 
you  ever,  after  you  were  grown  up,  pull  a  grown-up 
woman's  hair.''  Did  you  ever  bite  a  grown-up  man? 
Did  you  ever  call  both  of  them  every  name  you  could 
lay  your  tongue  to? 

Lesbi.\   [shivering  with  disgust]     No. 

Mrs  George.  Well,  I  did.  I  know  what  a  woman  is 
like  when  her  hair's  pulled.  I  know  what  a  man  is  like 
when  he's  bit.  I  know  what  theyre  both  like  when  you 
tell  them  what  you  really  feel  about  them.  And  thats  bow 
I  know  more  of  the  world  than  you. 

Lesbia.  The  Chinese  know  what  a  man  is  like  when 
he  is  cut  into  a  thousand  pieces,  or  boiled  in  oil.  That 
sort  of  knowledge  is  of  no  use  to  me.      I'm  afraid  we 


292  Getting  Married 

shall  never  get  on  with  one  another.  Mrs  George.  I  live 
like  a  fencer,  always  on  guard.  I  like  to  he  confronted 
with  peojile  who  are  always  on  guard.  I  hate  sloppy 
jxople,  slovenly  people,  peoj)le  who  cant  sit  uj)  straight, 
sentimental  people. 

Mrs  (iKoiuiE.  Oh,  sentimental  your  grandmother! 
Vou  dont  learn  to  hold  your  own  in  the  world  by  stand- 
ing on  guard,  hut  by  attacking,  and  getting  well  ham- 
mered yourself. 

I.ESUiA.  I'm  not  a  prize-fightir,  Mrs.  Colliiis.  If  I 
cant  get  a  thing  without  tin-  indignity  of  fighting  for 
it.    I    do  without  it. 

.Mhs  (iKorKJK.  Do  you?  Does  it  strike  you  that  if 
we  were  all  as  clever  as  you  at  doing  without,  there 
wouldnt  be  much   to   live    for,   would   there? 

The  Gener.al.  I'm  afraid,  Lesbia,  the  things  you 
do  without  are  the  things  you  dont  want. 

LEsni.v  \surprist'(l  at  his  rrit]  Thats  not  bad  for  the 
silly  soldi«r  man.  Yes,  Boxer:  the  truth  is.  I  dont  want 
you  enough  to  make  the  very  unreasonable  sacrifices  re- 
quired by  marriage.  And  yet  that  is  exactly  why  I 
ought  to  be  married.  Just  because  I  have  the  qualities 
my  country  wants  most  I  shall  go  barren  to  my  grave; 
whilst  the  women  who  have  neither  the  strength  to  resist 
marriage  nor  the  inttlligrnci'  to  understand  its  infinite 
dishonor  will  make  the  England  of  the  future.  {She 
rises  and  walks  towards  the  stiidi/]. 

The  Gener.\l  [as  she  is  about  to  pass  him]  Well,  I 
shall  not  ask  you  again,  Lesbia. 

Lesbia.  Thank  you.  Boxer.  [She  passes  on  to  the 
stiidtf  door]. 

Mrs  George.  Youre  quite  done  witli  him,  are 
you  ? 

Lesbi.\.  As  far  as  marriage  is  concerned,  yes.  The 
field  is  clear  for  you.  Mrs  George.  [She  goes  into  the 
study] . 


Gcttiiii^  .Married  293 


•r> 


The  General  buries  his  face  in  his  Jiands.  Mrs  George 
comes  round  the  table  to  him. 

Mrs  Georoe  \sympathetically\  She's  a  nice  woman, 
that.  And  a  sort  of  beauty  about  her  too,  different  from 
anyone   else. 

The  Genekal  \overn'helmed\  OIi  Mrs  Collins,  thank 
you,  tliank  you  a  thousand  times.  \lle  rises  effusively]. 
You  have  thawed  the  long- frozen  springs  [//e  kisses  her 
hand].  Forgive  me;  and  thank  you:  bless  you — \he  again 
takes  refuge  in  the  garden,  choked  with  emotion]. 

Mrs  (jEorge  [looking  after  him  triumphantly]  Just 
caught  the  dear  old  warrior  on  the  bounce,  eh.^ 

HoTHiKiss.      Unfaithful  to  me  already! 

Mrs  (lEoiuiE.  I'm  not  your  ])r()])erty,  young  man: 
dont  you  think  it.  [She  goes  over  to  him  and  faces  him\. 
You  understand  that?  [He  suddenly  snatches  her  into 
his  arms  and  kisses  her].  Oh!  You  dare  do  that  again, 
you  young  blackguard;  and  I'll  jab  one  of  these  chairs  in 
your  face  [she  seizes  one  and  holds  it  in  readiness]. 
Now  you  shall  not  see  me  for  another  month. 

HoTtiiKiss  [deliberately]  I  shall  j)ay  my  first  visit 
to  your  husband  this   afternoon. 

Mrs  George.  YouH  see  what  he'll  say  to  you  when  I 
tell  him  what  youve  just  done. 

HoTCHKiss.      What  can  he  say?     What  dare  he  say? 

Mrs  George.      Suppose  he  kicks  you  out  of  the  house? 

HoTCHKiss.  How  can  he?  Ive  fought  seven  duels 
with  sabres.  Ive  muscles  of  iron.  Nothing  hurts  me: 
not  even  broken  bones.  Fighting  is  absolutely  uninter- 
esting to  me  because  it  doesnt  frighten  me  or  amuse  me; 
and  I  always  win.  Your  husband  is  in  all  these  respects 
an  average  man,  probably.  He  will  be  horribly  afraid 
of  me;  and  if  under  the  stimulus  of  your  presence,  and 
for  your  sake,  and  because  it  is  the  right  thing  to  do 
among  vulgar  people,  he  were  to  attack  me,  I  should  sim- 
ply defeat  him  and  humiliate  him  [he  gradually  gets  his 


294  Getting  Married 

luinds  on  the  chair  and  takes  it  from  her,  as  his  words 
go  home  phrase  by  phrase].  Sooner  than  expose  him 
to  tliat,  you  ■would  suffer  a  thousand  stolon  kisses, 
wouldnt  you .' 

Mus  George  [in  utter  consternation]  You  young 
viper ! 

HoTciiKiss.  Ha  ha!  You  are  in  my  power.  That  is 
one  of  the  oversights  of  your  code  of  honor  for  husbands: 
the  man  who  can  bully  them  can  insult  their  wives  with 
impunity.  Tell  him  if  you  dare.  If  I  choose  to  take 
ten  kisses,  how  will  you  prevent  me? 

Mks  Geoiuje.  You  come  within  reach  of  me  and  I'll 
not  leave  a  h.iir  on  your  head. 

Ht)TC  iiKiss  [catching  lur  rrri.sts  dcsterously]  Ivc  got 
your  hands. 

Mhs  (iEORGE.  Youve  not  got  my  teeth.  Let  go;  or 
I'll  bite.     I  will.  I  tell  you.     Let  go. 

HoTCHKiss.  Bite  away:  I  shall  taste  quite  as  nice 
as  Cieorge. 

Mus  Geor(;e.  You  beast.  Let  me  go.  Do  you  call 
yourself  a  gentleman,  to  use  your  brute  strength  against 
a  woman  ? 

HoTCHKiss.  You  are  stronger  than  me  in  every  way 
but  this.  Do  you  think  I  will  give  uj)  my  one  advantage? 
Promise  youll  receive  me  when  I  call  this  afternoon. 

Mrs  George.  After  what  youve  just  done?  Not  if  it 
was  to  save  my  life. 

HoTcHKiss.      I'll  amuse  George. 

Mks  George.      He  wont  be  in. 

HoTcuKiss  \taken  aback]  Do  you  mean  that  we 
should  be  alone? 

Mrs  George  [snatching  away  her  hands  triumphantly 
as  his  grasp  rela.res']      Aha!     Thats  cooled  you,  has  it? 

HoTCHKiss  [anxiously]  When  will  George  be  at 
home  ? 

Mrs  George.     It  wont  matter  to  you  whether  he's  at 


Getting  oNIarried  295 

home  or  not.  Tlie  door  will  be  slammed  in  your  face 
whenever  you  call. 

HoTCHKiss.  No  servant  in  London  is  strong  enough 
to  close  a  door  that  I  mean  to  keep  open.  You  cant  es- 
cape me.  If  you  persist,  I'll  go  into  the  coal  trade; 
make  George's  acquaintance  on  the  coal  exchange;  and 
coax  him  to  take  me  home  with  him  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance. 

Mks  George.  Wc  have  no  use  for  you,  young  man: 
neither  George  nor  I  [she  sails  away  from  him  and  sits 
down  at  the  end  of  the  table  near  the  study  door]. 

HoTCHKiss  [following  her  and  taking  the  next  chair 
round  the  corner  of  the  table^  Yes  you  have.  George 
cunt  fight  for  you:  I  can. 

Mrs  George  [turning  to  face  him]  You  bully.  You 
low  bully. 

HoTciiKiss.  You  have  courage  and  fascination:  I 
have  courage  and  a  pair  of  fists.  We're  both  bullies, 
Polly. 

Mrs  George,  You  have  a  mischievous  tongue.  Thats 
enough  to  keep  you  out  of  my  house. 

HoTCHKiss.  It  must  be  rather  a  house  of  cards.  A 
word  from  me  to  George — just  the  right  word,  said  in 
the  right  way — and  down  comes  your  house. 

Mrs  George,  Thats  why  I'll  die  sooner  than  let  you 
into  it, 

HoTCHKiss.  Then  as  surely  as  you  live,  I  enter  the 
coal  trade  to-morrow.  George's  taste  for  amusing  com- 
pany will  deliver  him  into  my  hands.  Before  a  month 
passes  your  home  will  be  at  my  mercy. 

Mrs  George  [risijig,  at  bay]  Do  you  think  I'll  let 
myself  be  driven  into  a  trap  like  this  ? 

HoTCHKiss.  You  are  in  it  already.  Marriage  is  a 
trap.  You  are  married.  Any  man  who  has  the  power 
to  spoil  your  marriage  has  the  power  to  spoil  your  life. 
I  have  that  power  over  you. 


296  Getting  Married 

Mrs  George  [desperate]     You  mean  it? 

HoTCHKiss.      I  do. 

Mrs  George  [resolutely]  Well,  spoil  my  marriage 
and  be — 

HoTCHKiss    [springing  wp]      Polly! 

Mrs  George.  Sooner  than  be  your  slave  I'd  face 
any  unliappiness. 

HoT(  HKiss.      ^Vhat!      Even    for   George? 

Mrs  George.  There  must  be  honor  between  me 
and  George,  happiness  or  no  happiness.  Do  your 
M'orst. 

HoTCHKiss  [admiring  her]  Are  you  really  game, 
Polly?     Dare  you  defy  me? 

Mrs  George.  If  you  ask  me  another  question  I  shant 
be  able  to  keep  my  hands  off  you  \shr  daslws  distract- 
edhi  past  him  to  the  other  end  of  th''  table,  her  fingers 
crisping]. 

HoTCHKiss.  That  settles  it.  Polly:  I  adore  you:  we 
were  born  for  one  another.  As  I  liappcn  to  be  a  gentle- 
man, I'll  never  do  anything  to  annoy  or  injure  you  ex- 
cejit  that  I  reserve  the  riglit  to  give  you  a  black  eye  if 
you  bite  me;  but  youll  never  get  rid  of  me  now  to  the 
end  of  your  life. 

Mrs  George.  I  shall  get  rid  of  you  if  the  beadle  has 
to  brain  you  with  the  mace  for  it  |  she  makes  for  the 
totver], 

HoTCHKiss  [running  between  the  table  and  the  oak 
chest  and  across  to  the  tower  to  cut  her  off]     You  shant. 

Mrs  George   [panting]      Shant  I  though? 

HoTCHKiss.  No  you  shant.  I  have  one  card  left  to 
piny  that  youve  forgotten.  Why  were  you  so  unlike 
yourself  when  you  spoke  to  the  Bishop? 

Mrs  George  [agitated  beyond  measure]  Stop.  Not 
that.  You  shall  respect  that  if  you  respect  nothing  else. 
I  forbid  you.  [lie  kneels  at  her  feet].  What  are  you 
doing?     Get  up:  dont  be  a  fool. 


Getting  jNIarried  297 

HoTCHKiss.  Polly:  I  ask  you  on  my  knees  to  let  me 
make  George's  acquaintance  in  his  home  this  afternoon ; 
and  I  shall  remain  on  my  knees  till  the  Bishop  comes  i:i 
and  sees  us.     What  will  he  think  of  you  then  ? 

Mrs  George    [beside  herself]      Wlieres  the  poker? 

She  rushes  to  the  fireplace;  seizes  the  poker;  and 
makes  for  Hotchkiss,  who  flies  to  the  study  door.  The 
Bishop  enters  just  then  and  finds  himself  between  them, 
narrowly  escaping  a  blow  from  the  poker. 

The  Bishop.  Dont  hit  him,  Mrs  Collins.  He  is  my 
guest. 

Mrs  George  throws  down  the  poker;  collapses  into  the 
nearest  chair;  and  bursts  into  tears.  The  Bishop  goes 
to  her  and  pats  her  consolingly  on  the  shoulder.  She 
shudders  all  through  at  his  touch. 

The  Bishop.  Come !  you  are  in  the  house  of  your 
friends.     Can  we  help  you? 

Mrs  George  [to  Hotchkiss,  pointing  to  the  study] 
Go  in  there,  you.     Youre  not  wanted  here. 

Hotchkiss.  You  understand,  Bishop,  that  Mrs  Col- 
lins is  not  to  blame  for  tliis  scene.  I'm  afraid  Ive  been 
rather  irritating. 

The  Bishop.     I  can  quite  believe  it,  Sinjon. 

Hotchkiss  goes  into  the  study. 

The  Bishop  [turning  to  Mrs  George  with  great  kind- 
ness of  7nanner]  I'm  sorry  you  have  been  worried  \he 
sits  down  on  her  left].  Never  mind  him.  A  little  pluck, 
a  little  gaiety  of  heart,  a  little  prayer;  and  youll  be 
lauffhinsr  at  him. 

Mrs  George.  Never  fear.  I  have  all  that.  It  was 
as  much  my  fault  as  his;  and  I  should  have  put  him  in 
his  place  with  a  clip  of  that  poker  on  the  side  of  his  head 
if  you  hadnt  come  in. 

The  Bishop.  You  might  have  put  him  in  his  coffin 
that  way,  Mrs  Collins.  And  I  should  have  been  very 
sorry;  because  we  are  all  fond  of  Sinjon. 


298  Getting  Married 

Mrs  George.  Yes:  it's  your  duty  to  rebuke  me.  But 
do  you  think  I   dont  know.^ 

Tme  Bishop.  I  dont  rebuke  you.  Who  am  I  that  I 
should  rebuke  yon?  Besides,  I  know  there  are  discus- 
sions in  which  the  poker  is  the  only  possible  argument. 

Mrs  CiEoKtiE.  My  lord:  bt-  earnest  with  me.  I'm  a 
very  funny  woman,  I  daresay ;  but  I  come  from  the  same 
workshop  as  you.  I  heard  you  say  that  yourself  years 
ago. 

The  Bishop.  Quite  so;  but  then  I'm  a  very  funny 
Bishop.  Since  we  .-ire  both  funny  people,  let  us  not  for- 
get that  humor  is  a  divine  attribute. 

Mrs  CiEoRCiE.  I  know  notliing  about  divine  attributes 
or  whatevrr  you  call  them :  but  I  can  feel  when  I  am 
being  belittled.  It  was  from  you  tiiat  I  learnt  first  to 
respect  myself.  It  was  through  you  that  I  came  to  be 
able  to  walk  safely  through  many  wild  and  wilful  paths. 
Dont  go  back  on  your  own  teaching. 

The  Bish<>i».  I'm  not  a  teacher:  only  a  fellow-trav- 
eller of  whom  you  asked  the  M-ay.  I  pointed  ahead 
— ahead  of  myself  as  well  as  of  you. 

Mrs  George  [rising  and  staruling  over  him  almost 
threateningly]  As  I'm  a  living  woman  this  day,  if  I  find 
you  out  to  be  a  fraud.  I'll  kill  myself. 

The  Bishop.  What  I  Kill  yourself  for  finding  out 
something !  I'or  becoming  a  wiser  and  therefore  a  better 
woman  !     What  a  bad  reason  ! 

Mrs  George.  I  have  sometimes  thought  of  killing 
you,  and  then  killing  myself. 

The  Bishop.  Why  on  earth  should  you  kill  yourself 
— not  to  mention  me? 

Mrs  George.  So  that  we  might  keep  our  assignation 
in   Heaven. 

The  Bishop  [rising  and  facing  her,  breathless]  Mrs. 
Collins  I     You  are  Incognita  Appassionata  ! 

Mrs  George.     You  read  my  letters,  then?      [With  a 


Getting  Married  299 

sigh  of  grateful  relief,  she  sits  down  quietly,  and  says] 
Thank  you. 

The  Bishop  [remorsefully]  And  I  have  broken  the 
spell  by  making  you  come  here  [sitting  down  again]. 
Can  you  ever  forgive  me? 

Mks  George.  You  couldnt  know  that  it  was  only  the 
coal  merchant's  wife,  could  you? 

The  Bishop.  Why  do  you  say  only  the  coal  mer- 
chant's  wife? 

Mrs  George.      Many  people  would  laugh  at  it. 

The  Bishop.  Poor  people!  It's  so  hard  to  know  the 
right  place  to  laugh,  isnt  it? 

Mrs  George.  I  didnt  mean  to  make  you  think  the 
letters  were  from  a  fine  lady.  I  wrote  on  cheap  j)aper; 
and  I  never  could  spell. 

The  Bishop.  Neither  could  I.  So  that  told  me 
nothing. 

Mrs  George.      One  thing  I  should  like  you  to  know. 

The  Bishop.     Yes? 

Mrs  George.  We  didnt  cheat  your  friend.  They 
were  as  good  as  we  could  do  at  thirteen  shillings  a  ton. 

The  Bishop.  Thats  important.  Thank  you  for  tell- 
ing me. 

Mrs  George.  I  have  something  else  to  say;  but  will 
vou  please  ask  somebody  to  come  and  stay  here  while  we 
talk?  [He  rises  and  turns  to  the  study  door].  Not  a 
woman,  if  you  dont  mind.  [lie  nods  understandingly 
and  passes  on].     Not  a  man  either. 

The  Bishop  [stopping]  Not  a  man  and  not  a 
woman !  We  have  no  children  left,  Mrs  Collins.  They 
are  all  grown  up  and  married. 

Mrs  George.     That  other  clergyman  would  do. 

The  Bishop.     Wliat!     The  sexton? 

Mrs  George.  Yes.  He  didnt  mind  my  calling  him 
that,  did  he?     It  was  only  my  ignorance. 

The  Bishop.      Not  at  all.      [He  opens  the  study  d4>or 


300  Getting  Married 

and  calls]  Soanics  !  Antliony  !  [To  Mrs  George]  Call 
biin  Father:  he  likes  it.  [Soames  appears  at  the  study 
door].      Mrs  Collins  wishes  you  to  join  us,  Anthony. 

Soames  looks  puzzled. 

Mrs  Georce.  You  dont  mind.  Dad,  do  you.''  \As 
this  greeting  visihlij  gives  him  a  shock  that  hardly  bears 
out  the  Bishop's  advice,  she  says  audiously]  That  was 
wlnt  you  told  me  to  call  him.  wasnt  it? 

Soames.  I  am  called  Father  Anthony,  Mrs  Collins. 
But  it  does  not  matter  what  you  call  me.  [He  comes  in, 
and   tvalks  past   her   to   the  hearth]. 

The  Bishop.  Mrs  Collins  has  something  to  say  to 
me  that  she  wants  you  to  hear. 

Soames.      I  am  listenin;;. 

The  Bishop    [going  hack  to  his  seat  nest  her]      Now. 

Mrs  George.  My  lord:  you  should  never  have  mar- 
ried. 

Soames.  This  woman  is  insjiired.  Listen  to  her,  my 
lord. 

The  Bishop  [taken  aback  by  the  directness  of  tlie  at- 
tack] I  married  heeause  I  was  so  much  in  love  with 
Alice  that  all  the  difficulties  and  doubts  and  dangers  of 
marriage  seemed  to  me  the  merest  moonshine. 

Mrs  George.  Yes:  it's  mean  to  let  poor  things  in 
for  so  much  while  theyre  in  that  state.  Would  you 
marry  now  that  you  know  better  if  you  were  a  wid- 
ower? 

The  Bishop.      I'm  old  now.      It  wouldnt  matter. 

Mrs  George.      But  would  you  if  it  did  matter? 

The  Bishop.  I  think  I  should  marry  again  lest  any- 
one should  imagine  I  had  found  marriage  unhappy  with 
Alice. 

Soames  [sternly]  Are  you  fonder  of  your  wife  than 
of  your  salvation  ? 

The  Bishop.  Oh,  very  much.  When  you  meet  a  man 
who  is  very  particular  about  his  salvation,  look  out  for  a 


Getting  Married  301 

woman  who  is  very  particular  aboul  her  cliaracter;  and 
marry  them  to  one  anotlier:  theyll  make  a  perfect  pair. 
1  advise  you  to  fall  in  love,  Anthony. 

SoAMEs   [with  horror]      I!! 

The  Bishop.  Yes^  you !  think  of  what  it  would  do 
for  you.  P'or  her  sake  you  would  come  to  care  un- 
selfishly and  diligently  for  money  instead  of  being 
selfishly  and  lazily  indifferent  to  it.  For  her  sake  you 
would  come  to  care  in  the  same  way  for  preferment.  For 
her  sake  you  would  come  to  care  for  your  health,  your 
appearance,  the  good  opinion  of  your  fellow  creatures, 
and  all  the  really  important  things  that  make  men  work 
and  strive  instead  of  mooning  and  nursing  their  sal- 
vation. 

SoAMEs.  In  one  word,  for  the  .^ake  of  one  deadly  sin  I 
should  come  to  care  for  all  tiie  others. 

The  Bishop.  Saint  Anthony  I  Tempt  him,  Mrs 
Collins :  tempt  him. 

Mrs  George  [rising  and  looking  strangely  before 
her^  Take  care,  my  lord:  you  still  have  the  power  to 
make  me  obey  your  commands.  And  do  you,  Mr  Sexton, 
beware  of  ;in  empty  heart. 

The  Bishop.  Yes.  Nature  abhors  a  vacuum,  An- 
thony. I  would  not  dare  go  about  with  an  empty  heart: 
why,  the  first  girl  I  met  would  fly  into  it  by  mere  at- 
mospheric pressure.  Alice  keeps  them  out  now.  Mrs 
Collins  knows. 

Mrs  George  [a  faint  convulsion  passing  like  a  nave 
over  her]  I  know  more  than  either  of  you.  One  of  you 
has  not  yet  exhausted  his  first  love :  the  other  has  not  yet 
reached  it.  But  I — I — [she  reels  and  is  again  con- 
vulsed]. 

The  Bishop  [saving  her  from  falling]  Whats  the 
matter.''  Are  you  ill,  Mrs  Collins .-^  [He  gets  her  back 
into  her  chair].  Soames :  theres  a  glass  of  water  in  the 
study — quick.     [Soajnes  hurries  to  the  study  door]. 


302  Getting  Married 

Mrs  Georoe.  No.  [Soames  stops].  Dont  call. 
Dont  bring  anyone.     Cant  you  hear  anything? 

Thk  Bishop.  Nothing  unusual.  ( He  sits  by  her, 
Ttatcliius^  her  ivith  intense  surprise  and  interest]. 

Mhs  CJEOHGE.      No  music.'' 

Soames.  No.  \IIe  steals  to  the  end  of  the  table  and 
tits  on  her  right,  equally  interested]. 

Mh8  George.      Do  you  see  nothing — not  a  great  light? 

The  Bishop.      We  are  still  walking  in  darkness. 

Mrs  Georoe.  Put  your  hand  on  uiy  forehead:  the 
hand  witli  the  ring.     \IIe  does  so.     II er  eyes  close]. 

SoA.MEs  ^inspired  to  prophesy]  There  was  a  certain 
woman,  the  wife  of  a  coal  merchant,  wMch  had  been  a 
great  sinner — 

The  Bishop,  startled,  takes  his  hand  away.  Mrs 
George's  eyes  open  vividly  as  she  interrupts  Soames. 

Mus  Cjeorge.  You  prophesy  falsely,  Anthony:  never 
in  all  my  life  have  I  done  anything  that  was  not  or- 
dained ior  me.  [More  quietly]  Ive  been  myself.  Ive 
not  been  afraid  of  myself.  And  at  last  I  have  escaped 
from  myself,  and  am  become  a  voice  for  them  that  are 
afraid  to  speak,  and  a  cry  for  the  hearts  that  break  in 
silence. 

Soames  [whispering]     Is  she  inspired? 

The  Bkshop.      Marvellous.     Hush. 

Mrs  George.  I  have  earned  the  right  to  speak.  I 
have  dared :  I  have  gone  tlirough :  I  have  not  fallen  with- 
ered in  the  fire:  I  have  come  at  last  out  beyond,  to  the 
back  of  Godspeed? 

The  Bishop.  And  what  do  you  see  there,  at  the  back 
of  Godspeed  ? 

Soames  [hungrily]     Give  us  your  message. 

Mrs  George  [with  intensely  sad  reproach]  \Vlien 
you  loved  me  I  gave  you  the  whole  sun  and  stars  to  play 
with.  I  gave  you  eternity  in  a  single  moment,  strength 
of  the  mountains  in  one  clasp  of  your  arms,  and  the  vol- 


Getting  ^Married  303 

ume  of  all  the  seas  in  one  impulse  of  your  souls.  A  mo- 
ment only;  but  was  it  not  enough?  Were  you  not  paid 
then  for  all  the  rest  of  your  struggle  on  earth  ?  Must 
I  mend  your  clothes  and  sweep  your  floors  as  well?  Was 
it  not  enough?  I  paid  the  jirice  without  bargaining:  I 
bore  the  ehildrcn  without  flinching:  was  that  a  reason 
for  heaping  fresh  burdens  on  me?  I  carried  the  child 
in  my  arms :  must  I  carry  the  father  too  ?  When  I 
opened  the  gates  of  paradise,  were  you  blind  ?  was  it 
nothing  to  you?  When  all  the  stars  sang  in  your  ears 
and  all  the  winds  swept  you  into  the  heart  of  heaven, 
were  you  deaf?  were  you  dull?  was  I  no  more  to  you 
than  a  bone  to  a  dog?  Was  it  not  enough?  We  spent 
eternity  together;  and  you  ask  me  for  a  little  lifetime 
more.  We  possessed  all  the  universe  together;  and  you 
ask  me  to  give  you  my  scanty  wages  as  well.  I  have 
given  you  the  greatest  of  all  things;  and  you  ask  me 
to  give  you  little  things.  I  gave  you  j'our  own  soul: 
you  ask  me  for  my  body  as  a  plaything.  Was  it  not 
enough?     Was  it  not  enough? 

SoAMES.     Do  you  understand  this,  my  lord? 

The  Bishop.  I  have  that  advantage  over  you,  An- 
thony, thanks  to  Alice.  [He  takes  Mrs  George's  hand]. 
Your  hand  is  very  cold.  Can  you  come  down  to  earth? 
Do  you  remember  who  I  am,  and  who  you  arc  ? 

Mrs  George.  It  was  enough  for  me.  I  did  not  ask 
to  meet  you — to  touch  you — [the  Bishop  quicklij  releases 
her  hand].  When  you  spoke  to  my  soul  years  ago  from 
your  pulpit,  you  opened  the  doors  of  my  salvation  to  me ; 
and  now  they  stand  open  for  ever.  It  was  enough:  I 
have  asked  vou  for  nothing  since:  I  ask  you  for  nothing 
now.  I  have  lived:  it  is  enough.  I  hive  had  my  wages; 
and  I  am  ready  for  my  work.  I  thank  you  and  bless  you 
and  leave  you.  You  are  happier  in  that  than  I  am;  for 
when  I  do  for  men  what  you  did  for  me,  I  have  no 
thanks,  and  no  blessing:  I  am  their  prey;  and  there  is 


304  Getting  Married 

no  rest  from  their  loving  and  no  incrry  from  their 
lo/itliing. 

TiiK  Bishop.  Vou  must  take  lis  as  we  are,  Mrs 
Collins. 

SoAMEft.  No.  Take  us  as  we  arc  capable  of  be- 
coming. 

Mils  CfEOROE.  Take  me  as  I  am:  I  a.sk  no  more. 
[.S'/ie  tiirtia  her  head  to  the  stutiif  door  and  cries]  Ves : 
come  in.  come  in. 

Ilotchkitt  Cornell  softly  in  from  the  sludtf. 

HoTi.  IIKIHH.  Will  you  be  so  kind  ns  to  tell  me  whether 
I  am  dr«-aming?  In  there  I  have  heard  Mrs  Collins  say- 
ing the  strangest  things,  and  not  n  syllable  from  yo;i 
two. 

SoAMES.      Mv  lord;   is  this   possession   by  the  devil? 

TiiK.    HisHoi*.      Or  the  ecstasy  of  a  saint? 

HoTc  nKiss,  Or  tin-  con\ulsion  of  the  pythoness  on 
the  tripod? 

Thl  Bishop.      May  not  the  three  Ik-  one? 

Mrs  CtEoROE  \ troubled]  You  are  paining  and  tirintr 
nic  with  idle  questions.  You  are  dragging  me  back  to 
mys«lf.  You  are  tormenting  me  with  your  evil  dreams 
of  saints  and  devils  and — what  was  it? — [ttrivinp  to 
fathom  it]  the  pythoness — tlie  pythoness — [giving  it 
up]  I  dont  understand.  I  nm  a  woman:  a  human  crea- 
ture like  yourselves.     Will  you  not  take  nie  a.s   I   am? 

SoAMEs.      Yes;  hut  shall  we  take  you  Jind  bum  you? 

The   Bishop.      Or  take  you  and  canonize  you? 

HoT<  HKiss  \  gailif]  Or  take  you  as  a  matter  of  course? 
\Striftlif  to  the  liishop]  We  must  get  her  out  of  this: 
it's  dangerous.  \.tloud  to  her]  May  I  suggest  that 
you  shall  be  Anthony's  devil  and  the  Bishop's  saint 
and  my  adored  Polly?  [Slipping  behind  her,  he  picks 
up  her  hand  from  her  lap  and  kisses  it  over  her 
skonlder] . 

Mrs  George  \^tcaking]     What  was  that?     Who  kissed 


Gettiii<r  Married  305 

my  hand?  [To  the  Bishop,  eagerly]  Was  it  you?  [lie 
shakes  his  head.  She  is  mortified].  I  bog  your 
pardon. 

The  Bisiior.  Not  at  all.  I'ln  not  rtpudiating  that 
honor.      Allow   me    \he   kisses  her  hatid], 

Mhs  CiKDiKiE.  Thank  you  lor  tliat.  It  was  not  the 
.sexton,  w.i.s    it? 

SoAMES.       I  ! 

H0TCHKI8S.      It  wa.s  I,   Polly,  your  ever  faithful. 

.Mas  CiKoiuiE  [turuiriir  and  seein<r  him]  Let  me  cateh 
you  doing  it  again:  that.s  all.  How  do  you  eome  there? 
I  srnt  you  away.  |  If'itJi  great  energy,  heeomiiig  (jiiiie 
herself  again  ]  What  the  goodius.s  graeious  has  been 
happening? 

lIoTCHKiss.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  you  have-  been 
having  a  very  charming  and  eloquent  sort  of  fit. 

Mrs  Geoiioe  [delighted]  What!  My  second  sight! 
[To  the  liishap]  Oh,  how  I  have  prayed  that  it  might 
eonie  to  me  if  ever  I  met  you!  And  now  it  has  conjc. 
How  stunning!  You  may  believe  tvery  word  I  said:  I 
cant  remember  it  now;  but  it  was  something  that  was  just 
bursting  to  be  said;  and  so  it  laid  hold  of  me  and  said 
itself.     Thats  how  it  is,  you  see. 

Edith  and  Ceeil  Sykes  eome  in  through  the  tower. 
She  has  her  hat  on.  Leo  follows.  They  have  evidently 
heen  out  together.  Sykes,  n-ith  an  unnatural  air,  half 
foolish,  half  rakish,  as  if  he  had  lost  all  his  self-respect 
and  were  determined  not  to  let  it  prey  on  his  spirits, 
throws  hijtiself  into  a  chair  at  the  end  of  the  table  near 
the  hearth  and  thrusts  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  like 
Hogarth's  Rake,  without  waiting  for  Edith  to  sit  down. 
She  sits  in  the  railed  chair.  Leo  takes  the  chair  nearest 
the  tower  on  the  long  side  of  the  table,  brooding,  with 
closed  lips. 

The  Bishop.     Have  you  been  out,  my  dear? 

Edith.     Yes. 


306  Getting  :MaiTied 

The  Bishop.      With  Cecil : 

Edith.      Vts. 

The   Bishop.      Have  you  come  to  an   understanding.'' 

No  reply.      Blank  silence. 

Sykes.      You   had   better  tell   them,   Edic. 

EuiTH.      Tell  theui  yourself. 

The  General  comes  in  from  the  garden. 

The  General  [^coming  fornard  to  the  tahle\  Can 
anybody  oblige  me  with  some  tobacco.''  Ive  rinished 
mine ;  and  my  nerves  are  still  far  from  settled. 

The  Bishop.  Wait  a  moment,  Boxer.  Cecil  has 
something  important  to  tell  us.  « 

Sykes.      Weve  done  it.     Thats  all. 

HoTCHKiss.      Done  wiiat,   Cecil.' 

Sykes.      ^^'ell,  what  do  you  suppose.'' 

Edith.      Got   mirried,  of  course. 

The   Geneh.\l.     .Married!      Who  gave  you  away? 

Sykes  ^jerking  his  head  ton'ards  the  tower]  This 
gentleman  did.  [Seeing  that  they  do  not  understand,  he 
looks  round  and  sees  that  there  is  no  one  there].  Oh  I  I 
thought  he  came  in  with  us.  Hes  gone  downstairs,  I 
su})i)ose.     The  Beadle. 

The  General.  The  Beadle  I  A\'hat  the  devil  did  he 
do  that  for.^ 

Sykes.  Oh,  I  dont  know:  I  didnt  make  any  bargain 
with  him.  [To  Mrs  George]  How  much  ought  I  to  give 
him,  Mrs  Collins .'' 

Mrs  George.  Five  shillings.  [To  the  Bishop]  I 
want  to  rest  for  a  moment :  there  I  in  your  study.  I  saw 
it  here   [site  touches  her  forehead]. 

The  Bishop  [opening  the  study  door  for  her]  By  all 
means.  Turn  my  brother  out  if  he  disturbs  you. 
Soames:  bring  the  letters  out  here. 

Sykes.  He  wont  be  offended  at  my  offering  it,  will 
he? 

Mrs  George.      Not  he!     He  touches  children  with  the 


Getting  :Married  307 

mace   to  cure  them  of  ringrsvorni   for   fourpcnce   apiece. 
[She   goes   into   the   study.      Soomes   follows   her]. 

The  General.  Well.  Edith,  I'm  a  little  disap- 
j)ointcd,  I  must  say.  However,  I'm  glad  it  was  done  by 
somebody  in  a  public  uiiifonn. 

Mrs  Bridge  north  and  Lesbia  come  in  through  the 
tower.  Mrs  Bridgenorth  makes  for  the  Bishop.  lie 
iroes  to  her,  and  they  meet  near  the  oak  chest.  Lesbta 
comes  between  Sykes  and  Edith. 

The  Bishop.     Alice,  my  love,  theyre  married. 

Mks  Bimdcenokth  [placidly]  Oh,  well,  thats  all 
right.     Better  tell  Collins. 

Soames  comes  back  from  the  study  with  his  writing 
materials.  lie  seats  himself  at  the  nearest  end  of  the 
table  and  goes  on  with  his  work.  Ilotchkiss  sits  donn 
in  the  next  chair  round  the  table  corner,  with  liis  back 
to  him. 

Lesbi.v.      You  have  both  given  in,  liave  you? 

Edith.  Not  at  all.  We  liave  provided  for  every- 
thing. 

SoAMEs.      How? 

Edith.  Before  going  to  the  churcli.  we  went  to  the 
office  of  that  insurance  companv — whats  its  name, 
Cecil? 

SvKES.  The  British  Family  Insurance  Corporation. 
It  insures  you  against  poor  relation';  and  all  sorts  of 
family  contingencies. 

Edith.  It  has  consented  to  insure  Cecil  against  libel 
actions  brought  against  him  on  my  account.  It  will  give 
us  specially  low  terms  because  I  am  a  Bishop's  daughter. 

Sykes.  And  I  have  given  Edie  my  solemn  word  that 
if  I  ever  commit  a  crime  I'll  knock  her  down  before  a 
witness  and   go  off  to  Brighton  with  another  lady. 

Lesbia.  Thats  what  you  call  providing  for  every- 
thing! [She  goes  to  the  middle  of  the  table  on  the  gar- 
den side  and  sits  down]. 


308  Getting  Married 

Leo.  Do  make  him  see  there  arc  no  worms  before  he 
knocks   you  down,   Editli.      Whcrcs   lUjjy? 

Reginald  [cominfr  in  from  the  study]  Here.  Whats 
the  matter? 

Leo  \springinfr  up  and  flouncing  round  to  him\ 
Wliats  the  matter !  You  may  well  ask.  While  Edic  and 
Cecil  were  at  the  insurance  office  I  took  a  taxy  and  went 
off  to  your  lodj^jinps ;  and  a  nice  mess  I  found  everything 
in.  Your  clothes  are  in  a  disgraceful  state.  Your  liver- 
pad  has  been  made  into  a  kettle-holder.  Youre  no  more 
fit  to  be  left  to  yourself  than  a  one-year  old  baby. 

Reginald.  Oh,  I  cant  be  bothered  k>oking  after 
things  like  that.     I'm  all  right. 

Leo.  Youre  not:  youre  a  disgrace.  You  never  con- 
sider that  youre  a  disgrace  to  me:  you  think  only  of 
yourself.  You  must  come  home  with  me  and  be  taken 
proper  care  of:  my  conscience  will  not  allow  me  to  let 
you  live  like  a  pig.  [She  arranges  his  necktie].  You 
must  stay  with  me  until  I  marry  St  John ;  and  then  we 
can  adopt  you  or  something. 

Re(;inali)  \f>rcnkiug  loose  from  her  and  stumping  off 
past  Ilotchkiss  towards  the  hearth]  No,  I'm  dashed  if 
I'll  be  adopted  bv  St  John.  You  can  adopt  him  if  vou 
like. 

HoTCHKiss  [rising]  I  suggest  that  that  would  really 
be  the  better  plan,  Leo.  Ive  a  confession  to  make  to  you. 
I'm  not  the  man  you  took  me  for.  Your  objection  to 
Rejjy  was  that  he  had  low  tastes. 

Reginald   \ turning]      Was  it?  by  George! 

Leo.  I  said  slovenly  habits.  I  never  thought  he  had 
really  low  tastes  until  I  saw  that  woman  in  court.  How 
he  could  have  chosen  such  a  creature  and  let  her  write 
to  him   after — 

Reginald.      Is  this  fair?     I  never — 

HoTCHKiss.  Of  course  you  didnt,  Rejjy.  Dont  be 
silly,  Leo.     It's  I  who  really  have  low  tastes. 


Getting  ISIarried  309 

Leo.     You  ! 

HoTCHKiss.  Ive  fallen  in  love  with  a  coal  merchant's 
wife.  I  adore  her.  I  would  ratlur  have  one  of  lier 
boot-laees  than  a  lock  of  your  hair.  [lie  folds  his  arms 
and  stands  like  a  rock]. 

Reginald.  You  damned  scoundrel,  how  dare  you 
tlirow  my  wife  over  like  that  before  my  face?  [He 
seems  on  the  point  of  assaulting  Ilotchkiss  when  Leo 
gets  between  them  and  draws  Regiiudd  away  tonvirds  tlie 
study  daor\ . 

Leo.  Dont  take  any  notice  of  liini,  Ilejjy.  Go  at 
once  and  get  that  odious  decree  demolished  or  annulled 
or  whatever  it  is.  Tell  Sir  Gorell  Barnes  that  I  have 
changed  my  mind.  [To  Ilotchkiss]  I  might  have 
known  that  you  were  too  clever  to  be  really  a  gentleman. 
\!She  takes  Reginald  away  to  the  oak  chest  and  seats 
Jiim  there.  He  chuckles.  Hotclikiss  resumes  his  seat, 
brooding]. 

The  Bishop.  All  tlie  problems  appear  to  be  solving 
themselves. 

Lesbia.     Except  mine. 

The  General.  But,  my  dear  Lesbia.  you  see  what 
has  liappened  here  to-day.  [Corning  a  little  nearer  and 
bending  his  face  towards  hers]  Now  I  put  it  to  you, 
does  it  not  shew  you  the  folly  of  not  marrying? 

Lesbia.  No:  I  cant  say  it  does.  And  [rising]  you 
have  been  smoking  again. 

The  General.  You  drive  me  to  it,  Lesbia.  I  cant 
help  it 

Lesbia  [standing  behind  her  chair  with  her  hands  on 
the  back  of  it  and  looking  radiant]  Well,  I  wont  scold 
you  to-day.  I  feel  in  particularly  good  humor  just 
now. 

The  General.     May  I  ask  why,  Lesbia? 

Lesbia  [drawing  a  large  breath]  To  think  that  after 
all  the  dangers  of  the  morning  I  am  still  unmarried !  still 


310 


Getting  Married 


independent!  still  my  o^ii  mistress!  still  a  glorious 
strong-minded  old  m.iid  ol   old   England  I 

Soarncs  silt'tilly  springs  up  and  nidhcs  a  lo)ig  stretch 
from  his  end  of  the  table  to  shake  her  hand  across  it. 

TnK  Gkxeral.  Uo  you  find  any  real  hapj)iness  in 
being  your  own  mistress?  Would  it  not  he  more  gen- 
erous— would  you  not  be  liapjjiir  as  some  one  else's  mis- 
tress— 

Lesbia.      Boxer! 

The  General  [rising,  horrified]  No,  no,  you  must 
know,  my  dear  Lesbia,  that  I  was  not  using  the  word  in 
its  improper  sense.  I  am  sometimes  unfotlunate  in  my 
clioice  of  ex])ressions;  but  you  know  what  I  mean.  I 
feel  sure  you  would  lu-  happiir  as  my  wife. 

Lesbia.  I  dartsay  I  shorld,  in  a  frowsy  sort  of 
way.  lint  I  prefer  my  dignity  and  my  independenee. 
I'm  afraid  I  think  this  rage  for  happiness  rather 
vulgar. 

The  C/eneual.  Oh,  very  w«ll,  Lesbia.  I  shall  not 
ask  you  again.      [lie  sits  down  huffily]. 

Lesbia.  Vou  will.  Boxer;  but  it  will  be  no  use.  [She 
also  sits  donn  again  and  puts  her  hand  almost  ajjec- 
tionatclif  on  his\.  Some  day  I  hope  to  make  a  friend  of 
you:  and  then  wt-  shall  get  on  very  nieely. 

The  (tenehal  [starting  up  again]  Ha!  I  think  you 
are  hard,  Lesbia.  I  shall  make  a  fool  of  myself  if  I  re- 
main here.  Alice:  I  shall  go  into  the  garden  for  a 
while. 

Collins  [appearing  in  the  ion-er]  I  think  everything 
is  in  order  now.  niaam. 

The  General  [going  to  liim]  Oh,  by  the  way,  eould 
you  oblige  me — [the  rest  of  the  sentence  is  lost  in  a 
whisper], 

Collins.  Certainly,  General.  [He  takes  out  a  to- 
bacco pouch  and  hands  it  to  the  General,  who  takes  it 
and  goes  into  the  garden]. 


Getting  Married  311 

Lesbia.  I  dont  believe  tlicrcs  a  man  in  Eiifjl  iiid  who 
really  and  truly  loves  his  wife  as  much  as  he  loves  his 
pipe. 

The  Bishop.  By  the  way.  wliat  has  ha])]ieiied  to  the 
wedding  party  ? 

Sykes.  I  dont  know.  There  wasnt  a  soul  in  the 
fluireh  when  we  were  married  excipt  the  pew  opener 
and  the  curate  who  did  the  job. 

Edith.      They  had  all  pone  home. 

Mhs   Biudgenohth.      But  the  bridesmaids? 

Collins.  Me  and  the  beadle  have  been  all  over  the 
place  in  a  couple  of  taxics,  maam;  and  weve  collected 
them  all.  Thiv  were  a  good  deal  disappointed  on  ac- 
count of  their  dresses,  and  thought  it  rather  irregu- 
lar; but  theyvc  agreed  to  come  to  the  breakfast. 
The  truth  is,  theyre  wild  with  curiosity  to  know  how 
it  all  happened.  The  organist  held  on  until  the  or- 
gan was  nigh  worn  out,  and  himself  worse  than  the 
organ.  He  asked  me  jiartieul-irly  to  tell  you,  my  lord, 
that  he  held  back  Mendelssohn  till  the  very  last;  but 
when  that  was  gone  he  thought  he  miijht  as  well  go 
too.  So  he  played  God  Save  The  King  and  cleared 
out  the  church.  He's  coining  to  the  breakfast  to  ex- 
plain. 

Leo.  Please  remember,  Collins,  that  there  is  no  truth 
whatever  in  the  rumor  that  I  am  sejiarated  from  my  hus- 
band, or  that  there  is.  or  ever  has  been,  anything  between 
me  and  Mr  Hotehkiss. 

Collins.  Bless  you,  maam !  one  could  always  see 
that.  \To  Mrs  Bridgenorth]  Will  you  receive  here  or 
in  the  hall,  maam? 

Mrs  Bridgenorth.  In  the  hall.  Alfred:  you  and 
Boxer  must  go  there  and  be  ready  to  keep  the  first  ar- 
rivals talking  till  we  come.  We  have  to  dress  Edith. 
Come,  Lesbia:  come,  Leo:  we  must  all  help.  Now, 
Edith.      [Lesbia,   Leo,   and  Edith   go   out    through    the 


312  Getting  Married 

totver].  Collins:  we  shall  -Hnnt  3'ou  when  Miss  Edith's 
dressed  to  look  over  her  veil  and  things  and  see  that 
theyre  all  right 

Collins.  Yes,  maam.  /Vnything  you  would  like 
mentioned  about  Miss  Lesbia,  niaanir 

Mus  BniuGENORTH.  No.  She  wont  have  the  Gen- 
eral.    I  think  you  may  take  that  as  final. 

Collins.  What  a  pity,  uiaani  I  A  fine  lady  wasted, 
ranam.  [Thri/  shake  their  heads  sadly ;  and  Mrs  Bridge- 
north  goes  out  through   the  totver]. 

The  Bishop.  I'm  going  to  the  liall.  Collins,  to  re- 
ceive. Rejjy:  go  and  tell  Boxer;  and  come  both  of  you 
to  help  with  the  small  talk.  Come,  Cecil.  [lie  goes  out 
through  the  tower,  follorved  hy  Sykes\. 

Reginald  \to  Hotchkiss]  Youve  always  talked  a 
)>reci(»us  lot  about  behaving  like  a  gentleman.  Well,  if 
you  think  youve  behaved  like  a  gentleman  to  Leo,  youre 
mistaken.  And  I  shall  have  to  take  her  part,  remember 
that. 

HoTCHKiss.  I  understand.  Your  doors  are  closed 
to  me. 

Reginald  [quiekly]  Oli  no.  D(^nt  be  hasty.  I  tliink 
I  should  like  you  to  drop  in  after  a  while,  you  know. 
She  gets  so  cross  and  upset  when  theres  nobody  to  liven 
up  the  house  a  bit. 

HoTCHKiss.      I'll  do  my  best. 

Reginald  [relieved]  Righto.  You  dont  mind,  old 
chap,  do  you? 

HoTCHKisR,  It's  Fate.  Ive  touched  coal;  and  my 
hands  are  black;  but  theyre  clean.  So  long,  Rejjy. 
[They  shake  hands:  and  Reginald  goes  into  the  garden 
to  eoUeet  Boxer] . 

Collins.  Excuse  me,  sir;  but  do  you  stay  to  break- 
fast? Your  name  is  on  one  of  the  covers;  and  I  should 
like  to  change  it  if  youre  not  remaining. 

HoTCHKiss.   How   do    I    know?      Is    my   destiny   any 


Getting  :Married  313 

longer  in  my  own  hands?     Go:  ask  she  who  must  be 

OBEYED. 

Collins  [arvestruck]  Has  Mrs  George  taken  a  fancy 
to  you,  sir? 

HoTCHKiss.  Would  she  liad !  Worse,  man,  worse: 
Ive  taken  a  fancy  to  Mrs  George. 

Collins.  Dont  despair,  sir:  if  George  likes  your 
conversation  youll  find  their  house  a  very  pleasant  one: 
livelier  tlian   Mr   Reginald's  was,  I   daresay. 

HoTCHKiss  [calling]     Polly. 

Collins  [prompily]  Oh,  if  it's  come  to  Polly  already, 
sir,  I  should  say  you  were  all  right. 

Mrs  George  appears  at  the  door  of  the  study. 

HoTCHKiss.  Your  brother-in-law  wishes  to  know 
whether  I'm  to  stay  for  the  wedding  breakfast.  Tell 
him. 

Mrs  George.  He  stays.  Bill,  if  he  chooses  to  behave 
himself. 

HoTCHKiss  [to  Collins]  May  I,  as  a  friend  of  the 
family,  have  the  privilege  of  calling  you  Bill  ? 

Collins.     With  pleasure,  sir,  I'm  sure,  sir. 

HoTCHKiss.  My  own  pet  name  in  tlie  bosom  of  my 
family  is  Sonny. 

Mrs  George,  ^^^ly  didnt  you  tell  me  that  before? 
Sonny  is  just  the  name  I  wanted  for  you.  [She  pats  his 
cheek  familiarly :  he  rises  abruptly  and  goes  to  the 
hearth,  where  he  throws  himself  moodily  into  the  ruled 
cliair]  Bill:  I'm  not  going  into  the  hall  until  there  are 
enough  people  there  to  make  a  proper  little  court  for  me. 
Send  the  Beadle  for  me  when  you  think  it  looks  good 
enough. 

Collins.  Right,  maam.  [He  goes  out  through  the 
tower]. 

Mrs  George  left  alone  with  Hotchkiss  and  Soames, 
suddenly  puts  her  hands  on  Soames's  shoulders  and 
bends  over  him. 


314  Getting  ^Married 

Mrs  GEonoE.  The  Bisliop  said  I  was  to  tempt  you, 
Anthony. 

SoAMEs    [tvithout   looking  round]      Woman:  go  away. 
Mas  George.      Anthony: 

"  Wlu-n  other  lips  and  otlicr  hearts 
Their  tale  of  love  shall  tell 
HoTCMKlss    [sardonicdUi/l 

In  language  whose  excess  imparts 
The  power  they  fiel  so  well. 
Mrs  George. 

Though  hollow  hearts  may  wear  a  mask 
Twould  break  your  own  to  see,     * 
In  sueh  a  moment  I  hut  ask 
That  youU  remember  me." 
And  yon  will.  Anth(my.     I  shall  put  my  spell  on  you. 

SoAMES.  Do  you  think  tiiat  a  man  who  has  sung  the 
Magnificat  and  adored  the  Queen  of  Heaven  has  any 
ears  for  such  trash  as  that  or  any  eyes  for  such  trash  as 
yoxi — saving  your  jioor  little  soul's  presence.  Go  home 
to  your  duties,  woman. 

SIhs  (iEoRf.E  {highlif  approving  his  fortitude]  An- 
thony :  I  adopt  you  as  my  fatlier.  Thats  the  talk !  Give 
me  a'  man  whose  whole  life  doesnt  hang  on  some  scrubby 
woman  in  the  next  street;  and  I'll  never  let  him  go  [she 
slaps  him  heartily  on  the  back]. 

SoAMEs.  Thats  enough.  You  have  another  man  to 
talk  to.     I'm  busy. 

Mrs  George  [leaving  Soames  and  going  a  step  or  two 
nearer  Ilotchkiss]  Why  arnt  you  like  him,  Sonny? 
"N^'hy  do  you  hang  on  to  a  scrubby  woman  in  the  next 
street? 

HoTCHKiss  [thoughtfully]  I  must  apologize  to 
Billiter. 

Mrs  George.     Who  is  Billiter? 

HoTCHKiss.  A  man  who  eats  rice  pudding  with  a 
spoon.     Ive  been  eating  rice  pudding  with  a  spoon  ever 


Getting  ^larried  315 

since  I  saw  you  first.  [He  rises].  We  all  eat  our  rice 
pudding  with  a  spoon,  dont  we,  Soames? 

SoAMEs.  We  are  members  of  one  another.  There  is 
no  need  to  refer  to  me.  In  the  first  pl.u?e,  I'm  busy:  in 
the  second,  youll  find  it  all  in  the  Church  Catechism, 
wliich  contains  most  of  tlie  new  discoveries  with  which 
the  age  is  bursting.  Of  course  you  should  ap()h)gize  to 
Billiter.  He  is  your  equal.  He  will  go  to  the  sune 
heaven  if  he  behaves  himself  and  to  the  same  hill  if  lie 
doesnt. 

Mrs  George  [sitting  down]  And  so  will  wy  husband 
the  coal  mereliant. 

HoTCHKiss.  If  I  were  your  husband's  superior  here 
I  should  be  his  superior  in  heaven  or  hell:  eciuality  lies 
deeper  than  that.  The  coal  merchant  and  I  are  in  love 
with  the  same  woman.  That  settles  the  question  for  me 
for  ever.  [He  prowls  across  the  kitchen  to  the  garden 
door,  deep  in  thought]. 

SoAMES.     Psha ! 

Mrs  George.  You  dont  believe  in  women,  do  you, 
Anthony?  He  might  as  well  say  that  he  and  George 
both  like  fried  fish. 

HoTCHKiss.  I  do  not  like  fried  fish.  Dont  be  low, 
Polly. 

Soames.  Woman :  do  not  presume  to  accuse  me  of  un- 
belief. And  do  you,  Hotchkiss.  not  despise  this  woman's 
soul  because  she  speaks  of  fried  fish.  Some  of  the  vic- 
tims of  the  Miraculous  Draught  of  Fishes  were  fried. 
And  I  ent  fried  fish  every  Friday  and  like  it.  You  are 
as  ingrained  a  snob  as  ever. 

HoTCHKiss  [impatiently]  My  dear  Anthony:  I  find 
you  merely  ridiculous  as  a  preacher,  because  you  keep 
referring  me  to  places  and  documents  and  alleged  occur- 
rences in  which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  dont  believe.  I 
dent  believe  in  anything  but  my  own  will  and  my  own 
pride  and  honor.     Your  fishes  and  your  catechisms  and 


31 G  Getting  ^Married 

all  the  rest  of  it  innke  a  cliarming  poem  wliicli  you  call 
your  faith.  It  fits  you  to  perfection;  l)ut  it  doesnt  tit 
me.  I  happen,  like  Naj)oleon.  to  prefer  Mohammedanism. 
[Mrs  George,  associating  Mohammedanism  rvith  polyg- 
amy, looks  at  him  nith  quick  suspicion].  I  believe  the 
whole  British  Empire  will  adopt  a  reformed  Moham- 
medanism before  the  end  of  the  century.  The  character 
of  Mahomet  is  congenial  to  me.  I  admire  him,  and  share 
his  views  of  life  to  a  considerable  extent.  That  beats  you, 
you  see,  Soanies.  Religion  is  a  gr«at  force — the  only  real 
motive  force  in  tlic  world;  but  what  you  fellows  dont  un- 
derstand is  that  you  must  get  at  a  man  thraugh  his  own 
religion  and  not  through  yours.  Instead  of  facing  that 
fact,  vou  j>ersist  in  trying  to  convert  all  men  to  your 
own  little  sect,  so  tliat  you  can  use  it  against  them  after- 
wards. You  are  all  missionaries  and  jiroselytizers  trying 
to  uprot)t  the  native  religion  from  your  neighbor's  Hower- 
beds  and  plant  your  own  in  its  place.  You  would  rather 
let  a  child  perish  in  ignorance  than  have  it  taught  by  a 
rival  sectary.  You  can  talk  to  me  of  the  quintessential 
equality  of  coal  merchants  and  British  officers;  and  yet 
you  cant  see  the  quintessential  tciuality  of  all  the  re- 
ligions. Who  are  you,  anyhow,  that  you  should  know 
better  than  Mahomet  or  Confucius  or  any  of  the  other 
Johnnies  who  have  been  on  tliis  job  since  the  world 
existed  ? 

Mrs  George  [admiring  his  eloquence]  George  will 
like  you.  Sonny.  You  should  hear  him  talking  about  the 
Church. 

SoAMES.  Very  well,  then:  go  to  your  doom,  both  of 
you.  There  is  only  one  religion  for  me:  that  which  my 
soul  knows  to  be  true;  but  even  irreligion  has  one  tenet; 
and  that  is  the  saeredness  of  marriage.  You  two  are 
on  the  verge  of  deadly  sin.     Do  you  deny  that  ? 

HoTCHKiss.  You  forget,  Anthony:  the  marriage  it- 
self is  the  deadly  sin  according  to  you. 


Getting  Married  317 

SoAMES.  The  question  is  not  now  what  I  believe,  but 
what  you  believe.  Take  the  vows  with  me;  and  give  up 
that  woman  if  you  have  the  strength  and  the  light.  But 
if  you  are  still  in  the  grip  of  tliis  world,  at  least  respect 
its  institutions.  Do  you  believe  in  marri.igf  or  do  you 
not .? 

HoTCHKiss.  My  soul  is  utterly  free  from  any  such 
superstition.  I  solemnly  declare  that  between  this 
woman,  as  you  impolitely  call  her,  and  me,  I  see  no  bar- 
rier that  my  conscience  bids  me  respect.  I  loathe  the 
whole  marriage  morality  of  thq-  middle  classes  with  all 
my  instincts.  If  I  were  an  eighteenth  century  niarcjuis 
I  could  feel  no  more  free  with  regard  to  a  Parisian  cit- 
izen's wife  than  I  do  with  regard  to  Polly.  I  despise  all 
this  domestic  purity  business  as  the  lowest  depth  of  nar- 
row,  selfish,   sensual,   wife-grabbing   vulgarity. 

Mrs  George  [rising  promptly]  Oh,  indeed.  Then 
youre  not  coming  home  with  me,  young  man.  I'm  sorry; 
for  its  refreshing  to  have  met  once  in  my  life  a  man  who 
wasnt  frightened  by  my  wedding  ring;  but  I'm  looking 
out  for  a  friend  and  not  for  a  French  marquis;  so  youre 
not  coming  home  with  me. 

HoTCHKiss   [inej-orabli^]      Yes,  I  am. 

Mrs  George.     No. 

HoTCHKiss.  Yes.  Thmk  again.  You  know  your  set 
pretty  well,  I  suppose,  your  petty  tradesmen's  set.  You 
know  all  its  scandals  and  hypocrisies,  its  jealousies  and 
squabbles,  its  hundred  of  divorce  cases  tliat  never  come 
into  court,  as  well  as  its  tens  that  do. 

Mrs  George.  We're  not  angels.  I  know  a  few  scan- 
dals; but  most  of  U5  are  too  dull  to  be  anything  but 
good. 

HoTCHKiss.  Then  yon  must  have  noticed  that  just 
as  all  murderers,  judging  b}'  their  edifying  remarks  on 
the  scaffold,  seem  to  be  devout  Christians,  so  all  liber- 
tines, both  male  and  female,  are  invariably  people  over- 


318  Getting  Married 

flowing  with  domestic  sentimentality  and  professions  of 
respect  for  the  conventions  tliey  violate  in  secret. 

Mhs  Gkohge.  Well,  you  dont  expect  them  to  give 
themselves  away,  do  you? 

HoTCHKiss.  They  are  people  of  sentiment,  not  of 
honor.  Now,  I'm  not  a  man  of  sentiment,  but  a  man  of 
honor.  I  know  well  what  will  happen  to  me  when  once 
I  cross  the  threshold  of  your  husband's  house  and  break 
bread  with  him.  This  marriage  bond  which  I  despise 
will  bind  me  as  it  never  seems  to  bind  the  people  who 
believe  in  it,  and  whose  chief  amusement  it  is  to  go  to 
the  theatres  where  it  is  laughed  at.  Soajjies :  youre  a 
Communist,  arnt  you? 

SoAMES.  I  am  a  Christian.  That  obliges  me  to  be  a 
Communist. 

IIoTCHKiss.  And  you  believe  that  many  of  our  landed 
estates  were  stolen  from  the  Church  by  Henry  the 
eighth  ? 

SoAMES.  I  do  not  merely  believe  that:  I  know  it 
as  a  lawyer. 

HoTCHKiss.  Would  you  steal  a  turnip  from  one  of 
the  landlords  of  those  stolen  lands? 

SoAMEs  [fctichig  w://i  the  question]  They  have  no 
right  to  their  lands. 

HoTCiiKiss.  Thats  not  what  I  ask  you.  Would  you 
steal  a  turnip  from  one  of  the  fields  they  have  no 
right  to? 

SoA.MES.      I   do  not  like  turnips. 

HoTc  iiKiss.     As  you  are  a  lawyer,  answer  me. 

SoAMEs.  I  admit  that  I  should  probably  not  do  so. 
I  should  ]ierhaps  be  wrong  not  to  steal  the  turnip:  I 
cant  defend  my  reluctance  to  do  so;  but  I  think  I  should 
not  do  so.     I  know  I  should  not  do  so. 

HoTCHKiss.  Neither  shall  I  be  able  to  steal  George's 
wife.  I  have  stretched  out  my  hand  for  that  forbidden 
fruit  before;  and  I  know  that  my  hand  will  always  come 


Getting  Married  319 

b;ick  empty.  To  disbelieve  in  marriage  is  easy:  to  love 
a  married  woman  is  easy ;  but  to  betray  a  comrade,  to 
be  disloyal  to  a  host,  to  break  the  covenant  of  bread  and 
salt,  is  impossible.  You  may  take  nie  home  with  you, 
Polly:  you  have  nothing  to  fear. 

Mrs  George.     And  nothing  to  hope? 

HoTCHKiss.  Since  you  put  it  in  that  more  tlian  kind 
way,  Polly,  absolutely  nothing. 

yiiis  CJEoiuJE.  Hm!  Like  most  men,  you  think  you 
know  everything  a  woman  wants,  dont  you?  But  the 
thing  one  wants  most  has  nothing  to  do  with  marriage  at 
all.  Perhaps  Anthony  here  has  a  glimmering  of  it.  Eh, 
Anthony  ? 

SoAMES.      Christian  fellowship? 

Mas  George.      You  call  it  that,  do  you? 

SoAMEs.      What  do  you  call  it? 

Collins  [appearing  in  tiic  toivcr  iritJi  the  Beadle]- 
Now,  Polly,  the  hall's  full;  and  theyre  w.'.iting  for  you. 

The  Beadle.  Make  way  there,  gentlemen,  please. 
\^'ay  for  the  worshipful  the  Mayoress.  If  you  please, 
my  lords  and  gentlemen.  By  your  leave,  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen :  way  for  the  Mayoress. 

Mrs  George  takes  Hotchkiss's  arm,  and  goes  out,  pre- 
ceded hy  the  Beadle. 

Soames  resumes  his  writing  tranquilly. 


THE    SHEWING-UP    OF 
BLANCO   POSNET 

XVIII 
1909 


331 


P,REFACE 

The  Censorship 

This  little  play  is  really  a  religious  tract  in  dramatic 
form.  If  our  silly  censorship  would  permit  its  perform- 
ance, it  might  possibly  help  to  set  riglit-side-up  the  per- 
verted conscience  and  re-invigorate  the  starved  self-re- 
spect of  our  considerable  class  of  loose-lived  playgoers 
whose  point  of  honor  is  to  deride  all  official  and  conven- 
tional sermons.  As  it  is,  it  only  gives  me  an  opportunity 
of  telling  the  story  of  the  Select  Committee  of  both 
Houses  of  Parliament  which  sat  last  year  to  enquire  into 
the  working  of  the  censorship,  against  which  it  was 
alleged  by  myself  and  others  tliat  as  its  imbecility  and 
mischievousness  could  not  be  fully  illustrated  within  the 
limits  of  decorum  imposed  on  the  press,  it  could  only  be 
dealt  with  by  a  parliamentary  body  subject  to  no  such 
limits. 

A  Readable  Bhiebook 

Few  books  of  the  year  1909  can  have  been  cheaper 
and  more  entertaining  than  the  report  of  this  Committee. 
Its  full  title  is  Report  from  the  Joint  Select  Com- 
mittee OF  THE  House  of  Lords  and  the  House  of 
Commons  on  the  Stage  Plays  (Censorship)  together 
WITH  the  Proceedings  of  the  Committee,  Minutes 
of  Evidence,  and  Appendices.  What  the  phrase  "  the 
Stage  Plays"  means  in  this  title  I  do  not  know;  nor 
does  anyone  else.     The  number  of  the  Bluebook  is  214. 

323 


324  The  She\\ing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

How  interesting  it  is  m.iy  be  judged  from  tlie  fact  that 
it  contains  verbatim  reports  of  long  and  animated  in- 
terviews between  the  Committee  and  such  witnesses  as 
W.  William  Archer,  Mr.  Clranville  IJarker.  Mr.  J.  M. 
Barrie,  .Mr.  I'orbes  Ilolurtson.  .Mr.  Cecil  Raleigh,  Mr. 
John  (ialswortliy,  Mr.  Laurence  Housman.  Sir  Herbert 
Betrbolim  Trre,  .Mr.  W.  L.  Courtney,  Sir  William  (iil- 
bert,  .Mr.  A.  B.  Walkley,  Miss  Lena' Ashwell,  Professor 
Gilbert  Murray,  Mr.  George  Alexander,  .Mr.  George  Ed- 
wardes,  Mr.  Comyns  Cnrr,  the  Speaker  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  the  Bishop  of  Southwark,  Mr.  Hall  Caine, 
Mr.  Lsrael  Zangwill.  Sir  Scjuire  Bancroft.  Sir  Arthur 
I^inero,  and  .Mr.  Ciillurt  Chesterton,  not  \o  mention  my- 
self and  a  number  of  gentlemen  less  well  known  to  the 
general  public,  but  important  in  the  world  of  the  theatre. 
The  publication  of  a  book  b_v  so  many  famous  contribu- 
tors would  be  beyond  the  means  of  any  commercial  pub- 
lishing firm.  His  Majesty's  Stationery  Office  sells  it  to 
all  conurs  by  weight  at  the  very  reasonable  price  of  three- 
and-tlireepence  a  copy. 

How   Not    to    Do    It 

It  was  pointed  out  by  Charles  Dickens  in  Little  Dor- 
rit,  which  remains  the  most  accurate  and  ])enetrating 
study  of  the  genteel  littleness  of  our  class  governments 
in  the  English  language,  that  whenever  an  abuse  be- 
comes oppressive  enough  to  persuade  our  ])arty  parlia- 
mentarians that  something  must  be  done,  they  immedi- 
ately set  to  work  to  face  the  situation  and  discover 
How  Not  To  Do  It.  Since  Dickens's  day  the  exposures 
effected  by  the  Socialists  have  so  shattered  the  self-sat- 
isfaction of  modem  commercial  civilization  that  it  is  no 
longer  difficult  to  con\-ince  our  governments  that  some- 
thing must  be  done,  even  to  the  extent  of  attempts  at  a 
reconstruction  of  civilization  on  a  thoroughly  uncommer- 


Preface  325 

cial  basis.  Consequently,  the  first  part  of  the  process 
described  by  Dickens :  that  in  which  the  reformers  were 
snubbed  by  front  bench  demonstrations  that  the  admin- 
istrative dejiartinents  were  consuming  miU-s  of  red  tape 
in  the  correetcst  forms  of  activity,  and  that  everything 
was  for  the  best  in  the  best  of  all  jjossible  worlds,  is  out 
of  fashion ;  and  we  are  in  that  other  ]ihase,  familiarized 
by  the  history  of  the  French  Revolution,  in  which  the 
primary  assumption  is  that  tlie  country  is  in  danger,  and 
tliat  the  first  duty  of  all  parties,  ])oliticians,  and  govern- 
ments is  to  save  it.  But  as  the  effect  of  this  is  to  give 
governments  a  great  many  more  things  to  do.  it  also 
gives  a  powerful  stimulus  to  the  art  of  How  Not  To  Do 
Them:  that  is  to  say,  the  art  of  contriving  methods  of 
reform  which  will  leave  matters  exactly  as  they  are. 

The  report  of  the  Joint  Select  Committee  is  a  capital 
illustration  of  this  tendency.  The  case  against  the  cen- 
sorshi[)  was  overwlielming;  and  the  defence  was  more 
dam.'iging  to  it  than  no  defence  at  all  could  have  been. 
Even  h:id  this  not  been  so,  the  mere  caprice  of  opinion 
had  turned  against  the  institution ;  and  a  reform  was  ex- 
pected, evidence  or  no  evidence.  Therefore  the  Commit- 
tee was  unanimous  as  to  the  necessity  of  reforming  the 
censorship;  only,  unfortunately,  the  majority  attached  to 
this  unanimity  the  usual  condition  that  nothing  should  be 
done  to  disturb  the  existing  state  of  things.  How  this 
was  effected  may  be  gathered  from  the  recommendations 
finally  agreed  on,  which  are  as  follows. 

1.  The  drama  is  to  be  set  entirely  free  by  the  aboli- 
tion of  the  existing  obligation  to  procure  a  licence  from 
the  Censor  before  performing  a  play;  but  every  theatre 
lease  is  in  future  to  be  construed  as  if  it  contained  a 
clause  giving  the  landlord  power  to  break  it^and  evict 
the  lessee  if  he  produces  a  play  without  first  obtaining 
the  usual  licence  from  the   Lord   Chamberlain. 

2.  Some  of  the  plays  licensed  by  the  Lord  Chamber- 


326  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

lain  are  so  vicious  tli.it  tlicir  prt-strit  practical  iniiminity 
from  prosecution  must  be  put  an  end  to;  Init  no  manipjrr 
who  jirocurcs  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  licence  for  a  jilav 
can  be  jmnished  in  any  way  for  produeinj^  it.  though  a 
sj)ecial  tribunal  may  order  him  to  diseontiinie  the  per- 
formance; and  even  this  order  must  not  be  recorded  to 
his  disadvantage  on  the  licence  of  his  theatre,  nor  may  it 
be  given  ns  a  judicial  reason  for  cancelling  that  licence. 

.S.  Authors  and  managers  producing  plays  without 
first  obtaining  the  usu;il  lietnee  from  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain shall  be  perfectly  free  to  do  so.  and  shall  be  at  no 
disadvantage  compared  to  those  who  follow  the  existing 
practice,  except  that  they  may  be  punished,  have  the 
licences  of  their  theatres  endorsed  and  cancelled,  and 
have  the  performance  stopped  pending  the  proceedings 
without  comjiensation  in  the  event  of  the  proceedings 
ending  in  their  ae«iuittal. 

i.  Authors  are  to  be  rescued  from  their  present  sub- 
jection to  an  irresponsible  secret  tril)unal  which  can  con- 
d»  tun  their  plays  without  giving  reasons,  by  the  substi- 
tution for  that  tribunal  of  n  Committee  of  the  Privy 
Council,  which  is  to  be  the  final  authority  on  the  fitness 
of  a  play  for  representation;  and  this  Committee  is  to 
sit  in  camera  if  and  when  it  pleases. 

5.  The  power  to  impose  a  veto  on  the  production  of 
plays  is  to  be  abolished  because  it  may  hinder  the  growth 
of  a  great  national  drama;  but  the  Office  of  Examiner 
of  Plays  shall  be  continued;  and  the  Lord  Chamberlain 
shall  retain  his  present  powers  to  license  plays,  but  shall 
be  made  responsible  to  Parliament  to  the  extent  of  mak- 
ing it  possible  to  ask  questions  there  concerning  his 
proceedings.  es))ecially  now  that  members  have  discov- 
ered a  niKhod  of  doing  this  indirectly. 

And  so  on.  and  so  forth.  The  thing  is  to  be  done; 
and  it  is  not  to  be  done.  Everything  is  to  be  changed 
and  nothing  is  to  be  changed.      The   problem   is  to  be 


Preface  327 

faced  and  the  solution  to  be  shirked.     And  the  word  of 
Dickens  is  to  be  justified. 

The  Story  of  the  Joint  Select 
Committee 

Let  me  now  tell  the  story  of  the  Committee  in  greater 
detail,  partly  as  a  contribution  to  history ;  partly  be- 
cause, like  most  true  stories,  it  is  more  amusing  than  the 
official  story. 

All  commissions  of  public  eiujuiry  are  more  or  less  in- 
timidated both  by  the  interests  on  which  they  have  to 
sit  in  judgment  and,  when  their  members  are  party  j)oli- 
ticians,  by  the  votes  at  the  back  of  those  interests ;  but 
this  unfortunate  Committee  sat  under  a  quite  exceptional 
cross  fire.  First,  there  was  the  king.  The  Censor  is  a 
member  of  his  household  retinue;  and  as  a  king's  retinue 
has  to  be  jealously  guarded  to  avoid  curtailment  of  the 
royal  state  no  matter  what  may  be  the  function  of  the 
particular  retainer  threatened,  nothing  but  an  express 
royal  intimation  to  the  contrary,  which  is  a  constitutional 
impossibility,  could  have  relieved  the  Committee  from 
the  fear  of  displeasing  the  king  by  any  proposal  to  abol- 
ish the  censorship  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain.  Now  all 
the  lords  on  the  Committee  and  some  of  the  commoners 
could  have  been  wiped  out  of  society  (in  their  sense  of 
the  word)  by  the  slightest  intimation  that  the  king  would 
prefer  not  to  meet  them ;  and  this  was  a  heavy  risk  to 
run  on  the  chance  of  "  a  great  and  serious  national 
drama  "  ensuing  on  the  removal  of  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain's veto  on  Mrs  Warren's  Profession.  Second,  there 
was  the  Nonconformist  conscience,  holding  the.  Liberal 
Government  responsible  for  the  Committee  it  had  ap- 
pointed, and  holding  also,  to  the  extent  of  votes  enough 
to  turn  the  scale  in  some  constituencies,  that  the  theatre 
is  the  gate  of  hell,  to  be  tolerated,  as  vice  is  tolerated, 


328  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Tosnct 

only  because  the  power  to  suppress  it  could  not  be  pven 
to  any  public  body  witbout  too  serious  nn  interference 
with  certain  I.ib«ral  traditions  of  liberty  which  are  still 
useful  to  Noncoinforniists  in  other  directions.  Third, 
there  was  the  conumreial  interest  of  the  theatrical  man- 
agers and  their  syndicates  of  backers  in  the  City,  to 
whom,  as  I  shall  shew  later  on,  the  censorship  affords  a 
cheap  insurance  of  enormous  value.  Fourth,  there  was 
the  ))owerful  interest  of  the  trade  in  intoxieatinj;  liquors, 
fiercely  determined  to  resist  any  extension  of  the  author- 
ity of  teetotaller-led  local  goveriiinij  bodies  over  tluatrcs. 
Fifth,  there  were  the  playwrights,  without  political 
power,  but  with  a  very  close  natural  monopoly  of  a  tal- 
ent not  only  for  j)lay-writing  but  for  satirical  polemics. 
/Vnd  since  every  interest  has  its  opposition,  all  these 
influences  had  criated  hostile  bodies  by  the  operation  of 
the  mere  impulse  to  contradict  them,  always  strong  in 
English  human  n.iture. 

Why  the  ^laria^ers  Love  tlie 
Censorsliip 

The  only  one  of  these  influences  which  seems  to  be 
generally  misunderstood  is  that  of  the  managers.  It  has 
been  assumed  repeatedly  that  managers  and  authors  are 
affected  in  the  same  way  by  the  censorship.  When  a 
prominent  author  protests  against  the  censorship,  his 
opinion  is  supposed  to  be  balanced  by  that  of  some 
prominent  manager  who  declares  that  the  censorship  is 
the  mainstay  of  the  theatre,  and  his  relations  with  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  and  the  Examiner  of  Plays  a  cher- 
ished privilege  and  an  inexhaustible  joy.  This  error 
was  not  removed  by  the  evidence  given  before  the  Joint 
Select  Committee.  The  managers  did  not  make  their 
case  clear  there,  partly  because  they  did  not  understand 
it,  and  partly  because  their  most  eminent  witnesses  were 


Preface  329 

not  personally  affected  by  it,  and  would  not  condescend 
to  j)ltnd  it.  feelinfT  themselves,  on  the  contrary,  com- 
pelled by  their  self-res])ect  to  admit  and  even  emphasize 
the  fact  that  the  Lord  Chamberlain  in  the  exercise  of 
his  duties  as  licensor  had  done  those  things  which  he 
ought  not  to  have  done,  and  left  undone  those  tilings 
which  he  ought  to  have  done.  Mr  Forbes  Robertson  and 
Sir  Herbert  Tree,  for  instance,  had  never  felt  the  re.-il 
disadvantage  of  which  managers  have  to  complain.  This 
disadvantage  was  not  put  directly  to  the  Committee;  and 
though  the  managers  are  against  me  on  the  question  of 
the  censorship,  I  will  now  put  their  case  for  them  as 
they  should  have  put  it  themselves,  and  as  it  can  be  read 
between  the  lines  of  their  evidence  when  onee  the  reader 
has  the  elue. 

The  manager  of  a  theatre  is  a  man  of  business.  He  is 
not  an  expert  in  politics,  religion,  art,  literature,  philos- 
ophy, or  law.  He  calls  in  a  playwright  just  as  he  calls 
in  a  doctor,  or  consults  a  lawyer,  or  engages  an 
architect,  depending  on  the  playwright's  reputation  and 
past  achievements  for  a  satisfactory  result.  A  play  by 
an  unknown  man  may  attract  him  sufficiently  to  induce 
him  to  give  that  unknown  man  a  trial;  but  this  does  not 
occur  often  enough  to  be  taken  into  account:  his  normal 
course  is  to  resort  to  a  well-known  author  and  take 
(mostly  with  misgiving)  what  he  gets  from  him.  Xow 
this  does  not  cause  any  anxiety  to  Mr  Forbes  Robertson 
and  Sir  Herbert  Tree,  because  they  are  only  incidentally 
managers  and  men  of  business:  primarily  they  are  highly 
cultivated  artists,  quite  capable  of  judging  for  them- 
selves anything  that  the  most  abstruse  playwright  is 
likelv  to  put  before  them.  But  the  plain  sailing  trades- 
man who  must  be  taken  as  the  typical  manager  (for  the 
west  end  of  London  is  not  the  whole  theatrical  world) 
is  by  no  means  equally  qualified  to  judge  whether  a  play 
is  safe  from  prosecution  or  not.     He  may  not  imderstand 


330  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

it,  may  not  like  it,  may  not  know  -svliat  tlu-  author  is 
driving  at,  may  have  no  knowledge  of  the  etliieal,  polit- 
ical, and  sectarian  controversies  which  may  form  the  in- 
tellectual fabric  of  the  play,  and  may  honestly  see  noth- 
ing but  an  ordinary  "  character  part  "  in  a  stage  figure 
which  may  be  a  libellous  and  unmistakeable  caricature  of 
some  eminent  living  person  of  whom  he  has  never  heard. 
Yet  if  he  produces  the  play  he  is  legally  resj)onsible 
just  as  if  he  had  written  it  himself.  Witliout  j^rotection 
he  may  find  hiniself  in  the  dock  answering  a  charge  of 
blasphemous  libel,  seditious  libel,  obscene  libel,  or  all 
three  together,  not  to  mention  the  possibility  ()f  a  private 
action  for  defamatory  libel.  His  sole  refuge  is  the  opin- 
ion of  the  Examiner  of  Plays,  his  sole  ])rotection  the 
licence  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain.  A  refusal  to  license 
does  not  hurt  him.  becaust-  he  can  produce  another  play: 
it  is  the  author  who  sutlers.  The  granting  of  tlie  licence 
practically  places  him  above  the  law;  for  though  it  may 
be  legally  possible  to  prosecute  a  licensed  J)lay,  nobody 
ever  dreams  of  doing  it.  The  really  responsible  person, 
the  Lord  Chamberlnn.  could  not  be  put  into  the  dock; 
and  the  manager  could  not  decently  be  convicted  when 
he  could  ])rocure  in  his  defence  a  certificate  from  the 
chief  officer  of  the  King's  household  that  the  play  was  a 
proper  one. 

A  Two  Guinea  Insurance  Policy 

The  censorship,  then,  provides  the  manager,  at  the 
negligible  premium  of  two  guineas  j5cr  jilav,  with  an 
effective  insurance  against  the  author  getting  him  into 
trouble,  and  a  complete  relief  from  all  conscientious  re- 
sponsibility for  the  character  of  the  entertainment  at  his 
theatre.  Under  such  circumstances,  managers  would  be 
more  than  human  if  they  did  not  regard  the  censorship 
as  their  most  valuable  privilege.     This  is  the  simple  ex- 


Preface  331 

planation  of  the  rally  of  the  managers  and  their  Asso- 
ciations to  the  defence  of  the  censorship,  of  their  reit- 
erated resolutions  of  confidence  in  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain, of  thtir  presentations  of  plate,  and,  generally,  of 
their  enthusiastic  contentment  with  the  present  system, 
all  in  such  startling  contrast  to  the  denunciations  of  the 
censorship  by  the  authors.  It  also  explains  why  the 
managerial  witnesses  who  had  least  to  fear  from  the 
Censor  were  the  most  reluctant  in  his  defence,  whilst 
those  whose  practice  it  is  to  strain  his  indulgence  to  the 
utmost  were  almost  rapturous  in  his  praise.  There 
would  be  absolute  unanimity  among  the  managers  in 
favor  of  the  censorship  if  they  were  all  simply  trades- 
men. Even  those  actor-managers  who  made  no  secret 
before  the  Committee  of  their  contempt  for  the  present 
operation  of  the  censorship,  and  their  indignation  at 
being  handed  over  to  a  domestic  official  as  casual  serv- 
ants of  a  specially  disorderly  kind,  demanded,  not  the 
abolition  of  the  institution,  but  such  a  reform  as  might 
make  it  consistent  with  their  dignity  and  unobstructive 
to  their  higher  artistic  aims.  Feeling  no  personal  need 
for  protection  against  the  author,  they  perhaps  forgot 
the  plight  of  many  a  manager  to  whom  the  modern  ad- 
vanced drama  is  so  much  Greek;  but  they  did  feel  very 
strongly  the  need  of  being  protected  against  Vigilance 
Societies  and  Municipalities  and  common  informers  in  a 
country  where  a  large  section  of  the  community  still  be- 
lieves that  art  of  all  kinds  is  inherently  sinful. 

Why  the  Government  Interfered 

It  may  now  be  asked  how  a  Liberal  government  had 
been  persuaded  to  meddle  at  all  with  a  question  in  which 
so  many  conflicting  interests  were  involved,  and  which 
had  probably  no  electoral  value  whatever.  Many  simple 
souls  believed  that  it  was  because  certain  severely  virtu- 


332   TliL-  Shcv/ing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

ous  plays  by  11  sen,  by  ?J.  Brivux,  by  Mr  Granville 
Barker,  and  by  uie,  were  suppressed  by  the  censorship, 
whilst  plays  of  a  scandalous  character  were  licensed 
without  demur.  Xo  doubt  this  inHueneed  ])ublic  opinion; 
but  those  who  imagine  that  it  could  inHuence  British 
governments  little  kiiow  how  remote  from  public  opinion 
and  how  full  of  their  own  little  family  and  party  affairs 
British  governments,  both  Liberal  and  Unionist,  still  are. 
The  censorship  scandal  had  existed  for  years  without 
anv  parliamentary  action  being  taken  in  the  matter,  and 
might  have  existed  for  as  many  more  had  it  not  hap- 
pened in  190()  that  Mr  Rolnrt  Vernon  Harc^urt  enttred 
parliament  as  a  member  of  the  Liln^ral  Party,  of  which 
bis  father  had  been  one  of  the  leaders  during  the  Glad- 
stone er.-u  Mr  Harconrt  was  thus  a  young  man  marked 
out  for  office  both  by  his  parentage  and  his  imquestion- 
able  social  j)osition  as  one  of  the  governing  class.  Also, 
and  this  was  much  less  usual,  he  was  brilliantly  clever, 
and  was  the  author  of  a  couple  of  plays  of  remarkable 
promise,  Mr  Harconrt  informed  his  leaders  that  he  was 
going  to  take  up  the  subject  of  the  censorship.  The 
leaders,  recognizing  his  hereditary  right  to  a  parliament- 
ary canter  of  some  sort  as  a  prelude  to  his  public  career, 
and  finding  that  all  the  clever  people  seemed  to  be 
agreed  that  the  censorship  was  an  anti-Liberal  institu- 
tion and  an  abominable  nuisance  to  boot,  indulged  hira 
by  appointing  a  Select  Committer?  of  both  Houses  to 
investigate  the  subject.  The  then  Chancellor  of  the 
Duchy  of  Lancaster,  Mr  Herbert  Samuel  (now  Post- 
master-General), who  had  made  his  way  into  the  Cabinet 
twenty  vears  ahead  of  the  usual  age,  was  made  Chair- 
man. Mr  Robert  Harcourt  himself  was  of  course  a 
member.  "With  him,  representing  tlie  Commons,  were 
Mr  Alfred  Mason,  a  man  of  letters  who  had  won  a  seat 
in  parliament  as  otfhandedly  as  he  has  since  discarded  it, 
or  as  he  once  appeared  on  the  stage  to  help  me  out  of 


Preface  333 

a  difficulty  in  casting  Arms  and  the  Man  when  tliat  piece 
was  the  newest  thing  in  the  advanced  drama.  There  was 
Mr  Hugh  Law,  an  Irish  member,  son  of  an  Irish  Chan- 
cellor, presenting  a  keen  and  joyous  front  to  English 
intellectual  sloth.  Above  all,  there  was  Colonel  Lock- 
wood  to  represent  at  one  stroke  the  Opposition  and  the 
average  popular  man.  This  he  did  by  standing  up  gal- 
lantly for  the  Censor,  to  whose  support  the  Opposition 
was  in  no  way  committed,  and  by  visibly  defying  tlie 
most  cherished  conventions  of  the  average  man  with  a 
bunch  of  carnations  in  his  buttonhole  as  large  as  a  din- 
ner-plate, which  would  have  made  a  Bunthorne  blench, 
and  which  very  nearly  did  make  Mr  Granville  Barker 
(who  has  an  antipathy  to  the  scent  of  carnations)  faint. 


The  Peers  on  the  Joint  Select 
Committee 

The  House  of  Lords  then  proceeded  to  its  selection. 
As  fashionable  drama  in  Paris  and  London  concerns 
itself  almost  exclusively  with  adultery,  the  first  choice 
fell  on  Lord  Gorell,  who  had  for  many  years  presided 
over  the  Divorce  Court.  Lord  Plymouth,  who  had  been 
Chairman  to  the  Shakespear  Memorial  project  (now 
merged  in  the  Shakespear  Memorial  National  Theatre) 
was  obviously  marked  out  for  selection;  and  it  was  gen- 
erally expected  that  the  Lords  Lytton  and  Esher,  who 
had  taken  a  prominent  part  in  the  same  movement,  would 
have  been  added.  This  expectation  was  not  fulfilled. 
Instead,  Lord  Willoughby  de  Broke,  who  had  distin- 
guished himself  as  an  amateur  actor,  was  selected  along 
with  Lord  Newton,  whose  special  qualifications  for  the 
Committee,  if  he  had  any,  were  unknown  to  the  public. 
Finally  Lord  Ribblesdale,  the  argute  son  of  a  Scotch 
mother,  was  thrown  in  to  make  up  for  any  shortcoming 


834  The  She  wing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

in  intellectual  subtlety  that  might  arise  in  the  case  of  his 
younger  colleagues;  and  this  completed  the  two  teams. 


The  Committee's  Attitude  towards 
tlie  Theatre 

In  England,  thanks  chiefly  to  the  censorship,  the  the- 
atre is  not  respected.  It  is  inciulged  and  despised  as  a 
dejiartiiient  of  what  is  ]iolitfly  cnllrd  gaiety.  It  is  there- 
fore not  surprising  that  the  majority  of  the  Committee 
began  by  taking  its  work  ii])pishly  and  carelessly.  When 
it  discovered  that  the  contemjiorary  drama,  licensed  by 
the  Lord  Chamberlnin.  included  ])lays  which  could  be 
described  only  behind  closed  doors,  and  in  the  discom- 
fort which  attends  discussions  of  very  nasty  subjects  be- 
tween men  of  widely  ditl'«rent  ages,  it  calmly  put  its 
own  convenience  before  its  public  duty  by  ruling  that 
there  sliould  be  no  discussion  of  particular  plays,  much 
as  if  a  committee  on  temperance  were  to  rule  that  drunk- 
enness was  not  a  proper  subject  of  conversation  among 
gentlemen. 

A  Bad  Beginning 

This  was  a  bad  beginning.  Everybody  knew  that  in 
England  the  censorshi))  would  not  be  crushed  by  the 
weight  of  the  constitutional  argument  against  it,  heavy 
as  that  was,  unless  it  were  also  brought  home  to  the  Com- 
mittee and  to  the  public  that  it  had  sanctioned  and  pro- 
tected the  very  worst  practicable  examples  of  the  kind 
ol  play  it  professed  to  extirpate.  For  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  the  other  half  of  the  practical  side  of  the  case, 
dealing  with  the  merits  of  the  plays  it  had  suppressed, 
could  never  secure  a  unanimous  assent.  If  the  Censor 
had  suppressed  Hamlet,  as  he  most  certainly  would  have 
done  had  it  been  submitted  to  him  as  a  new  play,  he 


Preface  335 

would  have  been  supported  by  a  large  body  of  people  to 
whom  incest  is  a  tabooed  subject  which  must  not  be  men- 
tioned on  the  stage  or  anywhere  else  outside  a  criminal 
court.  Hamlet,  Oedipus,  and  The  Cenci,  Mrs  Warren's 
Profession,  Brieux's  Maternite,  and  Les  Avaries,  Maeter- 
linck's Monna  Vanna  and  Mr.  Granville  Barker's  Waste 
may  or  may  not  be  great  poems,  or  edifying  sermons,  or 
important  documents,  or  charming  romances:  our  tribal 
citizens  know  nothing  about  that  and  do  not  want  to 
know  anything:  all  that  they  do  know  is  that  incest, 
jirostitution,  abortion,  contagious  diseases,  and  nudity 
are  improper,  and  that  all  conversations,  or  books,  or 
jilays  in  which  tiiey  are  discussed  are  improper  conversa- 
tions, improper  books,  improper  plays,  and  should  not 
be  allowed.  The  Censor  may  prohibit  all  such  plays 
with  complete  certainty  that  there  will  be  a  chorus  of 
"  Quite  right  too  "  sufficient  to  drown  the  protests  of 
the  few  who  know  better.  The  Achilles  heel  of  the  cen- 
sorship is  therefore  not  the  fine  plays  it  has  suppressed, 
but  the  abominable  plays  it  has  licensed :  plays  which 
the  Committee  itself  had  to  turn  the  public  out  of  the 
room  and  close  the  doors  before  it  could  discuss,  and 
which  I  myself  have  found  it  impossible  to  expose  in  the 
jiress  because  no  editor  of  a  paper  or  magazine  intended 
for  general  family  reading  could  admit  into  his  columns 
the  baldest  narration  of  the  stories  which  the  Censor  has 
not  only  tolerated  but  expressly  certified  as  fitting  for 
presentation  on  the  stage.  When  the  Committee  ruled 
out  this  part  of  the  case  it  shook  the  confidence  of  the 
authors  in  its  impartiality  and  its  seriousness.  Of  course 
it  was  not  able  to  enforce  its  ruling  thoroughly.  Plays 
which  were  merely  lightminded  and  irresponsible  in  their 
viciousness  were  repeatedly  mentioned  by  Mr  Harcourt 
and  others.  But  the  really  detestable  plays,  which  would 
have  damned  the  censorship  beyond  all  apology  or  sal- 
vation, were  never  referred  to;  and  the  moment  Mr  Har- 


336  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

court  or  anyone  else  made  the  Committee  uncomfortable 
by  a  move  in  tlieir  direction,  tlie  ruling  was  appealed  to 
at  once,  and  the  censorship  saved. 


A  Comic  Interliide 

It  was  part  of  this  nervous  dislike  of  the  impleasant 
part  of  its  business  tliat  led  to  the  comic  incident  of 
the  Committee's  sudden  discovery  that  I  had  insulted  it, 
and  its  suspension  of  its  investigation  for  the  purjjose  of 
elaborately  insulting  me  back  again.  Comic  to  the  look- 
ers-on, that  is;  for  the  majority  of  the  Committee  made 
no  attempt  to  conceal  the  fact  that  they  were  wildly 
angry  with  me;  and  I,  though  my  public  experience  and 
skill  in  acting  enabled  me  to  maintain  an  appearance  of 
imperturbable  good-humor,  was  equally  furious.  The 
friction  began  as  follows. 

The  precedents  for  the  conduct  of  the  Committee  were 
to  be  found  in  the  proceedings  of  the  Committee  of  1892. 
That  Committee,  no  doubt  recognizing  the  absurdity  of 
calling  on  distinguished  artists  to  give  their  views  be- 
fore it,  and  then  refusing  to  allow  them  to  state  their 
views  except  in  nervous  replies  to  such  questions  as  it 
might  suit  members  to  put  to  them,  allowed  Sir  Henry 
Irving  and  Sir  John  Hare  to  prepare  and  read  written 
statements,  and  formally  invited  them  to  read  them  to 
the  Committee  before  being  questioned.  I  accordingly 
prepared  such  a  statement.  For  the  greater  convenience 
of  the  Committee,  I  offered  to  have  this  statement 
printed  at  my  own  expense,  and  to  supply  the  members 
with  copies.  The  offer  was  accepted ;  and  the  copies 
supplied.  I  also  offered  to  provide  the  Committee  with 
copies  of  those  plays  of  mine  which  had  been  refused  a 
licence  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain.  That  offer  also  was 
accepted;  and  the  books  duly  supplied. 


Preface  337 

An  xViiti- Shavian  Panic 

As  far  as  I  can  piess,  the  next  thinp:  that  happened 
was  that  some  timid  or  unawakcned  member  of  the  Com- 
mittee read  my  statement  and  was  frightcntd  or  scan- 
dalized out  of  his  wits  by  it.  At  all  events  it  is  certain 
that  the  majority  of  the  Committee  allowed  themselves  to 
be  persuaded  to  refuse  to  allow  any  statement  to  be 
read ;  but  to  avoid  the  appearance  of  pointing  this  ex- 
pressly at  me,  the  form  adopted  was  a  resolution  to  ad- 
here strictly  to  precedent,  the  Committee  being  then  un- 
aware that  the  precedents  were  on  my  side.  Accord- 
ingly, when  I  appeared  before  the  Committee,  and  jiro- 
posed  to  read  my  statement  "  according  to  precedent," 
the  Committee  was  visibly  taken  aback.  The  Chairman 
was  bound  by  the  letter  of  the  decision  arrived  at  to 
allow  me  to  read  my  statement,  since  that  course  was 
according  to  precedent ;  but  as  tliis  was  exactly  what 
the  decision  was  meant  to  prevent,  the  majority  of 
the  Committee  would  have  regarded  this  hoisting  of  them 
with  their  own  petard  as  a  breach  of  faith  on  the  part 
of  tlic  Chairman,  who,  I  infer,  was  not  in  agreement  with 
the  suppressive  majority.  There  was  nothing  for  it, 
after  a  somewhat  awkward  pause,  but  to  clear  me  and 
i:he  public  out  of  the  room  and  reconsider  the  situation  in 
camera.  When  the  doors  were  opened  again  I  was  in- 
formed simply  that  the  Committee  would  not  hear  my 
statement.  But  as  the  Committee  could  not  very  de- 
cently refuse  my  evidence  altogether,  the  Chairman,  with 
a  printed  copy  of  my  statement  in  his  hand  as  "  proof," 
was  able  to  come  to  the  rescue  to  some  extent  by  putting 
to  me  a  series  of  questions  to  which  no  doubt  I  might 
have  replied  by  taking  another  copy  out  of  my  pocket, 
and  quoting  my  statement  paragraph  by  paragraph,  as 
some  of  the  later  witnesses  did.  But  as  in  offering  the 
Committee  my  statement  for  burial  in  their  bluebook  I 


338  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

had  made  a  considerable  sacrifice,  being  able  to  secure 
greater  publicity  for  it  by  independent  ])ublieation  on  my 
own  account ;  and  as,  further,  the  circumstances  of  the 
refusal  made  it  offensive  enough  to  take  all  heart  out  of 
the  scrupulous  consideration  with  which  I  had  so  far 
treated  the  Conunittee,  I  was  not  disi)t)scd  to  give  its 
majority  a  second  chance,  or  to  lose  the  opportunity 
offered  me  by  the  questions  to  fire  an  additional  broad- 
side into  the  censorship.  I  pocketed  my  statement,  and 
answered  the  questions  viva  voce.  At  the  conclusion  of 
this,  my  examination-in-chief,  the  Committee  adjourned, 
asking  me  to  ])r»sint  myself  again  for  (virtually)  eross- 
exaniin.itiim.  Hut  this  cross-examination  never  came  off, 
as  the  secjuel  will  siiew. 

A  Rare  and   Curious  First  Edition 

The  refusal  of  the  COmmittee  to  admit  my  statement 
had  not  mniaturally  ertated  the  imjiression  that  it  must 
be  a  scandalous  document;  and  a  lively  demand  for  cop- 
ies at  once  set  in.  And  among  the  very  first  applicants 
were  members  of  the  majority  which  had  carried  the  de- 
cision to  exclude  the  document.  They  had  given  so  little 
attention  to  the  business  that  they  did  not  know,  or  had 
forgotten,  that  they  had  already  been  supplied  with  cop- 
ies at  their  own  request.  At  all  events,  they  came  to  me 
publicly  and  cleaned  me  out  of  the  handful  of  copies  I 
liad  provided  for  distribution  to  the  press.  And  after 
the  sitting  it  was  intimated  to  me  that  yet  more  copies 
were  desired  for  the  use  of  the  Committee:  a  demand, 
imder  the  circumstances,  of  breath-bereaving  coolness. 
At  the  same  time,  a  brisk  demand  arose  outside  the  Com- 
mittee, not  only  among  people  who  were  anxious  to  read 
what  I  had  to  say  on  the  subject,  but  among  victims  of 
the  craze  for  collecting  first  editions,  copies  of  privately 
circulated  pamphlets,  and  other  real  or  imaginary  rari- 


Preface  339 

ties,  and  wlio  will  cheerfully  pay  five  guineas  for  any 
piece  of  discarded  old  rubbish  of  mine  when  they  will 
not  pay  four-and-sixpence  for  this  book  because  every- 
one else  can  get  it  for  four-and-sixpence  too. 

The  Times  to  the  Rescue 

The  day  after  the  refusal  of  the  Committee  to  face  my 
statement,  I  transferred  the  scene  of  action  to  tiie  col- 
umns of  The  Times,  which  did  yeoman's  service  to  the 
public  on  this,  as  on  many  other  occasions,  by  treating 
the  question  as  a  public  one  without  the  least  regard  to 
the  supposed  susceptibilities  of  the  Court  on  the  one 
side,  or  the  avowed  })rejudiees  of  the  Free  Churches  or 
the  interests  of  the  managers  or  theatrical  speculators 
on  the  other.  The  Times  published  the  summarized  con- 
clusions of  my  statement,  and  gave  me  an  opportmiity 
of  saying  as  much  as  it  was  then  advisable  to  say  of 
■what  had  occurred.  For  it  must  be  remembered  that, 
however  impatient  and  contemptuous  I  might  feel  of  the 
intellectual  cowardice  shewn  by  the  majority  of  the  Com- 
mittee face  to  face  with  myself,  it  was  none  the  less  nec- 
essary to  keep  up  its  prestige  in  every  possible  way,  not 
only  for  the  sake  of  the  dignity  and  importance  of  the 
matter  with  which  it  had  to  deal,  and  in  the  hope  that 
the  treatment  of  subsequent  witnesses  and  the  final  re- 
port might  make  amends  for  a  feeble  beginning,  but  also 
out  of  respect  and  consideration  for  the  minority.  For 
it  is  fair  to  say  that  the  majority  was  never  more  than 
a  bare  majority,  and  that  the  worst  thing  the  Committee 
did — the  exclusion  of  references  to  particular  plays — 
was  perpetrated  in  the  absence  of  the  Chairman. 

I,  therefore,  had  to  treat  the  Committee  in  The  Times 
very  much  better  than  its  majority  deserved,  an  injustice 
for  which  I  now  apologize.  I  did  not,  however,  resist 
the  temptation  to  hint,  quite   good-humoredly,  that  my 


340   The  Slie^Ning-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

politeness  to  the  Committee  had  cost  me  quite  enough 
already,  and  that  I  was  not  i)repared  to  supply  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Committee,  or  anyone  else,  with  extra  copies 
merely   as  collectors'   curiosities. 

The  Council  of  Ten 

Then  the  fat  was  in  the  tire.  The  majority,  chaffed 
for  its  eagerness  to  obtain  copies  of  scarce  pamphlets 
retailable  at  five  guineas,  went  dancing  mad.  When  I 
presented  myself,  as  requested,  for  cross-examination,  I 
found  the  doors  of  the  Committee  room  shut,  and  the 
corridors  of  the  House  of  Lords  filled  by  a  wondering 
crowd,  to  whom  it  had  somehov.-  leaked  out  that  some- 
thing terrible  was  happening  inside.  It  could  not  be 
another  licensed  play  too  scandalous  to  be  discussed  in 
public,  because  the  Connnittee  had  decided  to  discuss  no 
more  of  these  examples  of  the  Censor's  notions  of  ])uri- 
fying  the  stage ;  and  what  else  the  Committee  might 
have  to  discuss  that  might  not  be  heard  by  all  the  world 
•was  not  easily  guessable. 

Without  suggesting  that  the  confidence  of  the  Com- 
mittee was  in  any  way  violated  by  any  of  its  members 
further  than  was  absolutely  necessary  to  clear  them  from 
susjncion  of  complicity  in  the  scene  which  followed,  I 
think  I  may  venture  to  conjecture  what  was  happening. 
It  was  felt  by  the  majority,  first,  that  it  must  be  cleared 
at  all  costs  of  the  imputation  of  having  procured  more 
than  one  copy  each  of  my  statement,  and  that  one  not 
from  any  interest  in  an  undesirable  document  by  an  ir- 
reverent author,  but  in  the  reluctant  discharge  of  its  sol- 
emn public  duty ;  second,  that  a  terrible  example  must  be 
made  of  me  by  the  most  crushing  public  snub  in  the 
power  of  the  Committee  to  administer.  To  throw  my 
wretched  little  pamphlet  at  my  head  and  to  kick  me  out 
of  the  room  was  the  passionate  impulse  which  prevailed 


Preface  341 

in  spite  of  all  the  remonstrances  of  the  Commoners,  sea- 
soned to  tlie  give-and-take  of  public  life,  and  of  the 
single  peer  who  kept  his  head.  The  others,  for  the  mo- 
ment, had  no  heads  to  keep.  And  the  fashion  in  which 
tlicy  proposed  to  wreak  their  vengeance  was  as  follows. 

The  Sentence 

I  was  to  be  admitted,  as  a  lamb  to  the  slaughter,  and 
allowed  to  take  my  place  as  if  for  further  examination. 
The  Chairman  was  then  to  inform  me  coldly  that  the 
Committee  did  not  desire  to  have  anything  more  to  say 
to  me.  The  members  were  thereupon  solemnly  to  hand 
me  back  the  copies  of  my  statement  as  so  much  waste 
paper,  and  I  was  to  be  sutYered  to  slink  away  with  what 
countenance  I  could  maintain  in  such  disgrace. 

But  this  plan  required  the  active  co-operation  of  every 
member  of  the  Committee;  and  whilst  the  majority  re- 
garded it  as  an  august  and  impressive  vindication  of  the 
majesty  of  parliament,  the  minority  regarded  it  with 
equal  conviction  as  a  puerile  tomfoolery,  and  declined 
altogether  to  act  their  allotted  parts  in  it.  Besides,  they 
did  not  all  want  to  part  with  the  books.  For  instance, 
Mr  Hugh  Law,  being  an  Irishman,  with  an  Irishman's 
sense  of  how  to  behave  like  a  gallant  gentleman  on  occa- 
sion, was  determined  to  be  able  to  assure  me  that  nothing 
should  induce  him  to  give  up  my  statement  or  prevent 
him  from  obtaining  and  cherishing  as  many  copies  as 
possible.  (I  quote  this  as  an  example  to  the  House  of 
Lords  of  the  right  thing  to  say  in  such  emergencies). 
So  the  program  had  to  be  modified.  The  minority  could 
not  prevent  the  enraged  majority  from  refusing  to  exam- 
ine me  further;  nor  could  the  Chairman  refuse  to  com- 
municate that  decision  to  me.  Neither  could  the  minor- 
ity object  to  the  secretary  handing  me  back  such  copies 
as  he  could  collect  from  the  majority.     And  at  that  the 


342   The  Sliewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

matter  was  left.     Tlie  doors  were  opened ;  tlie  audience 
trooped  in ;  I  was  called  to  my  place  in  the  dock  (so  to 

sjjeak)  ;  and  all  was  ready   for  the  sacrifice. 


The  Execution 

Alas!  the  majority  reckoned  without  Colonel  Lock- 
wood.  That  hardy  and  undaunted  veteran  refused  to 
shirk  his  share  in  the  scene  merely  because  the  minority 
was  recalcitrant  and  the  majority  perhaps  subject  to 
stage  fright,  ^^']u■n  Mr  Samuel  had  infornud  me  that 
the  Conmiittee  had  no  further  fjuestions  to  ask  me  with 
an  urbanity  which  gave  the  ])ul)lic  no  clue  as  to  the  tem- 
])er  of  the  majority;  wlien  I  had  jumjied  up  with  the 
pro{)er  air  of  relief  and  gratitude;  when  the  secretary 
had  handed  me  his  little  packet  of  books  with  an  affa- 
bility wliich  etfectually  concealed  his  dramatic  function 
as  executioner;  when  the  audience  was  simply  disap- 
pointed at  being  baulked  of  the  entertainment  of  hearing 
Mr  Robert  Harcourt  cross-examine  me;  in  short,  when 
the  situation  was  all  but  saved  by  the  tact  of  tlie  Chair- 
man and  secretary.  Colonel  Lockwood  rose,  with  all  his 
carnations  blazing,  and  gave  away  the  whole  case  by 
handing  me,  with  impressive  simplicity  and  courtesy,  his 
two  copies  of  the  precious  statement.  And  I  believe  that 
if  he  had  succeeded  in  securing  ten,  he  would  have 
handed  them  all  back  to  me  with  the  most  sincere  convic- 
tion that  every  one  of  the  ten  must  prove  a  crushing  ad- 
dition to  the  weight  of  my  discomfiture.  I  still  cherish 
that  second  copy,  a  little  blue-bound  pamphlet,  method- 
ically autographed  "  Lockwood  B  "  among  my  most  val- 
ued literary  trophies. 

An  innocent  lady  told  me  afterwards  that  she  never 
knew  that  I  could  smile  so  beautifully,  and  that  she 
thought  it  shewed  very  good  taste  on  my  part.  I  was 
not  conscious  of  smiling;  but  I   should  have  embraced 


Preface  343 

the  Colonel  had  I  dared.  As  it  was,  I  turned  expectantly 
to  his  colleagues,  mutely  inviting  them  to  follow  his  ex- 
ample. But  there  was  only  one  Colonel  Loekwood  on 
that  Committee.  No  eye  met  mine  except  minority  eyes, 
dancing  with  mischief.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  I  went  home  to  my  morning's  work,  and  returned 
in  the  afternoon  to  receive  the  apologies  of  the  minority 
for  the  conduct  of  the  majority,  and  to  see  Mr  Granville 
Barker,  ovcrwlielmed  by  the  conscience-stricken  ])olite- 
ness  of  tlie  now  almost  abject  Committee,  and  by  a  pow- 
erful smell  of  carnations,  heading  the  long  list  of  l)lav- 
wrights  who  came  there  to  testify  against  the  censorship, 
and  whose  treatment,  I  am  happy  to  say,  was  everything 
they  could  have  desired. 

After  all.  ridiculous  as  the  scene  was.  Colonel  Lock- 
wood's  simplicity  and  courage  were  much  more  service- 
able to  his  colleagues  than  their  own  inept  coup  de  the- 
atre would  have  been  if  he  had  not  spoiled  it.  It  was 
plain  to  every  one  that  he  had  acted  in  entire  good  faith, 
without  a  thought  as  to  these  apparently  insignificant 
little  books  being  of  any  importance  or  having  caused  me 
or  anybody  else  any  trouble,  and  that  he  was  wounded 
in  his  most  sensitive  spot  by  the  construction  my  Times 
letter  had  put  on  his  action.  And  in  Colonel  Lockwood's 
case  one  saw  the  case  of  his  party  on  the  Committee. 
They  had  simply  been  thoughtless  in  the  matter. 

I  hope  nobody  will  suppose  that  this  in  any  way  ex- 
onerates them.  When  people  accept  public  service  for 
one  of  the  most  vital  duties  that  can  arise  in  our  society, 
they  have  no  right  to  be  thoughtless.  In  spite  of  the 
fun  of  the  scene  on  the  surface,  my  public  sense  was, 
and  still  is,  very  deeply  offended  by  it.  It  made  an  end 
for  me  of  the  claim  of  the  majority  to  be  taken  seriously. 
^\^len  the  Government  comes  to  deal  with  the  question, 
as  it  presumably  will  before  long,  I  invite  it  to  be  guided 
by  the  Chairman,  the  minority,  and  by  the  witnesses  ac- 


344  The  She\nng-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

cording  to  their  weight,  and  to  pay  no  attention  whatever 
to  those  recomnicndations  which  were  obviously  inserted 
solely  to  conciliate  the  majority  and  get  the  report 
through  and  the  Committee  done  with. 

Mv  evidence  will  be  found  in  the  Bluebook,  pp.  46-53. 
And  here  is  the  terrible  st-itement  which  the  Committee 
went  through  so  much  to  suppress. 


THE    REJECTED    STATEMENT 

Part   I 
The  Witness's  Qualifications 

I  AM  by  profession  a  playwright.  I  have  been  in  prac- 
tice since  1892.  I  am  a  member  of  the  Managing  Com- 
mittee of  the  Society  of  Authors  and  of  the  Dramatic 
Sub-Committee  of  that  body.  I  have  written  nineteen 
plays,  some  of  which  have  been  translated  and  performed 
in  all  European  countries  except  Turkey,  Greece,  and 
Portugal.  They  have  been  ptrformed  extensively  in 
America.  Three  of  them  have  been  refused  licences  by 
the  Lord  Chamberlain.  In  one  case  a  licence  has  since 
been  granted.  The  other  two  are  still  unlicensed.  I 
have  suffered  both  in  pocket  and  reputation  by  the  action 
of  the  Lord  Chamberlain.  In  other  countries  I  have  not 
come  into  conflict  with  the  censorship  except  in  Austria, 
where  the  production  of  a  comedy  of  mine  was  post- 
poned for  a  year  because  it  alluded  to  the  part  taken  by 
Austria  in  the  Servo-Bulgarian  war.  This  comedy  was 
not  one  of  the  plays  suppressed  in  England  by  the  Lord 
Chamberlain.  One  of  the  plays  so  suppressed  was 
prosecuted  in  America  by  the  police  in  consequence  of 
an  immense  crowd  of  disorderly  persons  having  been 
attracted  to  the  first  performance  by  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain's condemnation  of  it;  but  on  appeal  to  a  higher 
court  it  was  decided  that  the  representation  was  lawful 
and  the  intention  innocent,  since  when  it  has  been  re- 
peatedly performed. 

I  am  not  an  ordinary  play^vright  in  general  practice. 
345 


34()   The   Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

I  am  a  specialist  in  immoral  and  hcrttic-al  j)lays.  My 
reputation  has  been  fjained  by  my  persistent  struggle  to 
force  tile  public  to  reconsider  its  morals.  In  particular, 
I  regard  much  current  morality  as  to  economic  and  sex- 
ual relations  as  disastrously  wrong;  and  I  regard  certain 
doctrines  of  the  Christian  religion  as  understood  in  Eng- 
land to-day  with  abhomiicf.  I  write  plays  with  tlie  de- 
liberate object  of  converting  tiie  nation  to  my  opinions 
in  these  matters.  I  have  no  other  eflfectual  incentive  to 
write  plays,  as  I  am  not  dependent  on  the  theatre  for 
my  livelihood.  If  I  were  prevented  from  producing  im- 
moral and  heretical  plays,  I  sliould  cease  to  write  for  the 
tlieatre,  and  proj)agate  my  views  from  the  jjlatform  and 
through  books.  I  mention  these  facts  to  shew  that  I 
have  a  special  interest  in  the  achievement  by  my  profes- 
sion of  those  rights  of  liberty  of  speech  and  conscience 
which  are  matters  of  course  in  other  professions.  I  ob- 
ject to  censorship  not  merely  because  the  existing  form 
of  it  grievously  injures  and  hinders  me  individually,  but 
on  public  grounds. 

Tlic  Dcliiiition  of  Iiiiniorality 

In  dealing  with  the  question  of  the  censorship,  every- 
thing depends  on  the  correct  use  of  the  word  immorality, 
and  a  careful  diserimination  between  the  powers  of  a 
magistrate  or  judge  to  administer  a  code,  and  those  of 
a  censor  to  ])lease  himself. 

Whatever  is  contrary  to  established  manners  and  cus- 
toms is  immoral.  An  immoral  act  or  doctrine  is  not  nec- 
essarily a  sinful  one:  on  the  contrary,  every  advance  in 
thought  and  conduct  is  by  definition  immoral  until  it 
has  converted  the  majority.  For  this  reason  it  is  of  the 
most  enormous  importance  that  immorality  should  be 
protected  jealously  against  the  attacks  of  those  who  have 
no  standard  except  the  standard  of  custom,  and  who  re- 


Tlic  Ucjected   Statement  347 

gard  any  attack  on  custom — that  is,  on  morals — as  an 
attack  on  society,  on  religion,  and  on  virtue. 

A  censor  is  never  intentionally  a  protector  of  innnoral- 
ity.  He  always  aims  at  tlie  protection  of  iiior.ility.  Now 
morality  is  extremely  valuable  to  society.  It  imposes 
conventional  conduct  on  the  great  mass  of  persons  who 
are  incajiable  of  original  ethical  judgment,  and  who 
would  be  quite  lost  if  they  were  not  in  leading-strings 
devised  by  lawgivers.  j)hilosophers,  j)rophets  and  poets 
for  their  guidance.  But  morality  is  not  deptiidtiit  on 
censorship  for  protection.  It  is  already  powerfully  for- 
ti<ird  by  the  magistracy  and  the  whole  body  of  law. 
IJlasphcmy,  indecency,  libel,  treason,  sedition,  obscenity, 
profanity,  and  all  the  other  evils  which  a  censorship  is 
supposed  to  avert,  are  punishable  by  the  civil  magistrate 
with  all  the  severity  of  vehement  prejudice.  Morality 
has  not  only  every  engine  that  lawgivers  can  devise  in 
full  operation  for  its  ])rotection.  but  also  that  enormous 
weight  of  public  opinion  enforced  by  social  ostracism 
which  is  stronger  than  all  the  statutes.  A  censor  pre- 
tending to  protect  morality  is  like  a  child  pushing  the 
cushions  of  a  railway  carriage  to  give  itself  the  sen- 
sation of  making  the  train  travel  at  sixty  miles  an  hour. 
It  is  immorality,  not  morality,  that  needs  protection:  it 
is  morality,  not  immorality,  that  needs  restraint;  for 
morality,  with  all  the  dead  weight  of  human  inertia  and 
superstition  to  hang  on  the  back  of  the  pioneer,  and  all 
the  malice  of  vulgarity  and  prejudice  to  threaten  him, 
is  responsible  for  many  persecutions  and  many  mar- 
tyrdoms. 

Persecutions  and  martyrdoms,  however,  are  trifles 
compared  to  the  mischief  done  by  censorships  in  delay- 
ing the  general  march  of  enlightenment.  This  can  be 
brought  home  to  us  by  imagining  what  would  have  been 
the  effect  of  applying  to  all  literature  the  censorship  we 
still  apply   to  the   stage.      The  works   of  Linnaeus   and 


348  The  Siiewing-Lp  of  Blanco  Posnet 

the  ex'olutionist.s  of  179'*- 18^50,  of  D.irwin,  ^^'allace, 
Huxliv,  lit  Inilidltz,  Tviulall,  Spencer,  Carlyle,  Ruskin, 
and  Samuel  Butler,  would  not  have  been  published,  as 
they  were  all  inuuoral  and  heretieal  in  the  very  highest 
degree,  and  gave  pain  to  many  worthy  and  pious  people. 
They  are  at  present  condemned  by  the  Greek  and 
Roman  Catholic  censorships  as  unfit  for  general  reading. 
A  ccnsorshij)  of  conduct  would  have  been  equally  disas- 
trous. The  disloyalty  of  Hainpdfn  and  of  Washinj^ton ; 
the  revolting  innnorality  of  Luther  in  not  mily  marrying 
when  he  was  a  ])riest.  but  actually  marrying  a  nun;  the 
heterodoxy  of  (ialileo;  the  shocking  blasphemies  and 
sacrileges  of  .Mohammed  against  the  idols  whom  he  de- 
throned .to  make  way  for  his  conception  of  one  god;  the 
still  more  startling  blasphemy  of  Jesus  when  he  declared 
God  to  be  the  son  of  man  and  himself  to  be  the  son  of 
God,  are  all  examples  of  shocking  immoralities  (every 
immorality  shm-ks  somebody),  the  suppression  and  ex- 
tinction of  which  would  have  been  more  disastrous  than 
the  utmost  mischief  that  can  be  conceived  as  ensuing 
from  the  toleration  of  vice. 

These  facts,  glaring  as  they  are.  are  disguised  by  the 
promotion  of  immoralities  into  moralities  which  is  con- 
stantly going  on.  Christi.mity  and  Mohammedanism, 
once  thought  of  and  dealt  with  exactly  as  Anarchism  is 
thought  of  and  dealt  with  today,  have  become  established 
religions ;  and  fresh  immoralities  are  presecuted  in  their 
name.  The  truth  is  that  the  vast  majority  of  persons  pro- 
fessing these  religions  have  never  been  anj-thing  but  sim- 
ple moralists.  The  respectable  Englishman  who  is  a 
Christian  because  he  was  born  in  Clapham  would  be  a 
Mohammedan  for  the  cognate  reason  if  he  had  been  born 
in  Constantinojile.  He  has  ne\'er  willingly  tolerated 
immorality.  He  did  not  adopt  any  innovation  until  it 
had  become  moral ;  and  then  he  adopted  it,  not  on  its 
merits,  but  solely  because  it  had  become  moral.     In  doing 


The  Rejected  Statement  349 

so  he  never  realized  tli.it  it  li.id  ever  been  immoral:  con- 
sequently its  early  strugj^lcs  taught  hira  no  lesson ;  and 
he  has  opposed  the  next  step  in  human  progress  as  in- 
dignantly as  if  neither  manners,  customs,  nor  thought 
had  ever  changed  since  the  beginning  of  the  world.  Tol- 
eration nuist  be  imposed  on  him  as  a  mystic  and  painful 
duty  by  his  spiritual  and  political  leaders,  or  he  will 
condeum  the  world  to  stagnation,  which  is  the  penalty 
of  an  inflexible  morality. 


What  Toleration  Means 

This  must  be  done  all  the  more  arbitrarily  because  it 
is  not  possible  to  make  the  ordinary  moral  man  under- 
stand what  toleration  and  liberty  really  mean.  He  will 
accept  them  verbally  with  alacrity,  even  with  enthusiasm, 
because  the  word  toleration  has  been  moralized  by  emi- 
nent Whigs ;  but  what  he  means  by  toleration  is  tolera- 
tion of  doctrines  that  he  considers  enlightened,  and,  by 
liberty,  liberty  to  do  what  he  considers  right:  that  is, 
he  does  not  mean  toleration  or  liberty  at  all ;  for  there 
is  no  need  to  tolerate  what  ajipears  enlightened  or  to 
claim  liberty  to  do  what  most  people  consider  right. 
Toleration  and  liberty  have  no  sense  or  use  except  as 
toleration  of  opinions  that  are  considered  damnable,  and 
liberty  to  do  what  seems  wrong.  Setting  Englishmen 
free  to  marry  their  deceased  wife's  sisters  is  not  tolerated 
by  the  people  who  approve  of  it,  but  by  the  people  who 
regard  it  as  incestuous.  Catholic  Emancipation  and  the 
admission  of  Jews  to  parliament  needed  no  toleration 
from  Catholics  and  Jews :  the  toleration  they  needed  was 
that  of  the  people  who  regarded  the  one  measure  as  a 
facilitation  of  idolatry,  and  the  other  as  a  condonation 
of  the  crucifixion.  Clearly  such  toleration  is  not  clam- 
ored for  by  the  multitude  or  by  the  press  which  reflects 
its  prejudices.     It  is  essentially  one  of  those  .•abnegations 


350  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

of  passion  and  prejudice  which  the  common  man  submits 
to  because  uncommon  men  whom  he  respects  as  wiser 
than  himself  assure  him  that  it  must  be  so,  or  the  higher 
affairs  of  human  destiny  will  suffer. 

Such  admission  is  the  more  difficult  because  the  argu- 
ments against  tolerating  immorality  are  the  same  as 
the  arguments  against  tolerating  murder  and  theft;  and 
this  is  why  the  Censor  seems  to  the  inconsiderate  as  ob- 
viously desirable  a  functionary  as  the  police  magistrate. 
But  there  is  this  simple  and  tremendous  difference  be- 
tween the  cases :  that  whereas  no  evil  can  conceivably 
result  from  the  total  suppression  of  murder  and  theft, 
and  all  communities  jirospcr  in  direct  j)roj)ortion  to  such 
su))]iression,  the  total  suj)pression  of  immorality,  espe- 
cially in  matters  of  religion  and  sex,  would  stop  enlight- 
enment, and  produce  what  used  to  be  called  a  Chinese 
civilization  until  the  Chinese  lately  took  to  immoral 
courses  by  permitting  railway  contractors  to  desecrate 
the  graves  of  their  ancestors,  and  their  soldiers  to  wear 
clothes  which  indecently  revealed  the  fact  that  they  had 
legs  and  waists  and  even  jiosteriors.  At  about  the  same 
moment  a  few  bold  Englishwomen  ventured  on  the  im- 
morality of  riding  astride  their  horses,  a  practice  that 
has  since  established  itself  so  successfully  that  before 
another  generation  has  passed  away  there  may  not  be  a 
new  side-saddle  in  England  or  a  woman  who  could  use 
it  if  there  was. 

The  Case  for  Toleration 

Accordingly,  there  has  risen  among  wise  and  far- 
sighted  men  a  perception  of  the  need  for  setting  certain 
departments  of  human  activity  entirely  free  from  legal 
interference.  This  has  nothing  to  do  with  any  sympa- 
thy these  liberators  may  themselves  have  with  immoral 
views.     A  man  with  the  strongest  conviction  of  the  Di- 


The  Rejected  Statement  351 

vine  ordering  of  the  universe  and  of  the  superiority  of 
monarchy  to  all  forms  of  government  may  nevertheless 
quite  consistently  and  conscientiously  be  ready  to  lay 
down  his  life  for  the  right  of  every  man  to  advocate 
Atheism  or  Republicanism  if  he  believes  in  them.  An 
attack  on  morals  may  turn  out  to  be  the  salvation  of  the 
race.  A  hundred  years  ago  nobody  foresaw  that  Tom 
Paine's  centenary  would  be  the  subject  of  a  laudatory 
special  article  in  The  Times ;  and  only  a  few  understood 
that  the  persecution  of  his  works  and  the  transportation 
of  men  for  the  felony  of  reading  them  was  a  mischievous 
mistake.  Even  less,  perhaps,  could  they  have  guessed 
that  Proudhon,  who  became  notorious  by  his  essay  en- 
titled "What  is  Property.''  It  is  Theft"  would  have  re- 
ceived, on  the  like  occasion  and  in  the  same  paper,  a 
respectful  consideration  which  nobody  would  now  dream 
of  according  to  Lord  Liverpool  or  Lord  Brougham. 
Nevertheless  there  was  a  mass  of  evidence  to  shew  that 
such  a  development  was  not  only  possible  but  fairly 
probable,  and  that  the  risks  of  suppressing  liberty  of 
propaganda  were  far  greater  than  the  risk  of  Paine's  or 
Proudhon's  writings  wrecking  civilization.  Now  there 
was  no  such  evidence  in  favor  of  tolerating  the  cutting 
of  throats  and  the  robbing  of  tills.  Xo  case  whatever 
can  be  made  out  for  the  statement  that  a  nation  cannot 
do  without  common  thieves  and  homicidal  ruffians.  But 
an  overwhelming  case  can  be  made  out  for  the  statement 
that  no  nation  can  prosper  or  even  continue  to  exist 
without  heretics  and  advocates  of  shockingly  immoral 
doctrines.  The  Inquisition  and  the  Star  Chamber,  which 
were  nothing  but  censorships,  made  ruthless  war  on  im- 
piety and  immoralit}'.  The  result  was  oTice  familiar  to 
Englislimen,  though  of  late  years  it  seems  to  have  been 
forgotten.  It  cost  England  a  revolution  to  get  rid  of 
the  Star,  Chamber.  Spain  did  not  get  rid  of  the  Inqui- 
sition, land  paid  for  that  omission  by  becoming  a  barely 


352  The  She^ving-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

third-rate  power  politically,  and  intclk'ctu.illy  no  power 
at  all,  in  the  Europe  she  had  once  dominated  as  the 
mightiest  of  the  Christian  empires. 


The  Limits  to  Toleration 

But  the  large  toleration  these  considerations  dictate 
has  limits.  For  example,  though  we  tolerate,  and  rightly 
tolerate,  the  propaganda  of  Anarchism  as  a  political  the- 
ory which  embraces  all  that  is  valuable  ift  the  doctrine 
of  Laisser-Faire  and  the  method  of  Free  Trade  as  well 
as  all  that  is  shocking  in  the  views  of  Bakounine,  we 
clearly  cannot,  or  at  all  events  will  not.  tolerate  assas- 
sination of  rulers  on  tlie  ground  that  it  is  "  ])ropaganda 
by  deed  "  or  sociological  exprrimcnt.  A  l)lay  inciting  to 
such  an  assassination  cannot  claim  the  privileges  of  her- 
esy or  immorality,  because  no  case  can  be  made  out  in 
support  of  assassination  as  an  indispensable  instrument 
of  j)rogress.  Now  it  happens  that  wc  have  in  the  Julius 
Cffsar  of  Shakespear  a  ])lay  which  the  Tsar  of  Russia  or 
the  Governor-General  of  India  would  hardly  care  to  see 
performed  in  their  cajiitals  just  n<nv.  It  is  an  artistic 
treasure;  but  it  glorifies  a  murder  which  Goethe  de- 
scribed as  the  silliest  crime  ever  committed.  It  may 
quite  possibly  have  helped  the  regicides  of  l6l9  to  sec 
themselves,  as  it  certainly  helped  generations  of  'UTiig 
statesmen  to  see  them,  in  a  heroic  light;  and  it  unques- 
tionably vindicates  and  ennobles  a  conspirator  who 
assassinated  the  head  of  the  Roman  State  not  because  he 
abused  his  position  but  solely  because  he  occupied  it, 
thus  affirming  the  extreme  republican  principle  that  all 
kings,  good  or  bad,  should  be  killed  because  kingship 
and  freedom  cannot  live  together.  Under  certain  cir- 
cumstances this  vindication  and  ennoblement  might  act 
as  an  incitement  to  an  actual  assassination  as  well  as  to 
Plutarchian  republicanism;  for  it  is  one  thing  to  advo- 


The  Rejected  Statement  353 

cate  republicanism  or  roy.ilisni :  it  is  quite  another  to 
make  a  hero  ot"  Brutus  or  Ravaillac,  or  a  heroine  of 
Charlotte  Corday.  Assassination  is  the  extreme  form  of 
censorship;  and  it  seems  hard  to  justify  an  incitement  to 
it  on  anti-censorial  })rinciple5.  The  very  people  who 
would  have  scouted  the  notion  of  prohibiting  the  per- 
formances of  Julius  Ca'sar  at  His  Majesty's  Theatre  in 
London  last  year,  might  now  entertain  very  seriously  a 
proposal  to  exclude  Indians  from  them,  and  to  supj)ress 
the  play  completely  in  Calcutta  and  Dublin;  for  if  the 
assassin  of  Caesar  was  a  hero,  why  not  the  assassins  of 
Lord  Frederick  Cavendish,  Presidents  Lincoln  and 
MeKinley,  and  Sir  Curzon  Wyllie?  Here  i-s  a  strong 
case  for  some  constitutional  uie/ins  of  preventing  the  per- 
formance of  a  play.  True,  it  is  an  equally  strong  case 
for  preventing  the  circulation  of  the  Bible,  which  w.is 
always  in  the  hands  of  our  regicides;  but  as  tlie  Roman 
Catholic  Church  does  not  hesitate  to  accept  that  conse- 
quence of  the  censorial  principle,  it  does  not  invalidate 
the  argument. 

Take  another  actual  case.  A  modern  comedy,  Arms 
and  The  Man,  though  not  a  comedy  of  politics,  is  never- 
theless so  far  historical  that  it  reveals  the  unacknowl- 
edged fact  that  as  the  Servo-Bulgarian  War  of  1885 
was  much  more  than  a  struggle  between  the  Servians 
and  Bulgarians,  the  troops  engaged  were  oflScered  by 
two  European  Powers  of  the  first  magnitude.  In  conse- 
quence, the  performance  of  the  play  was  for  some  time 
forbidden  in  Vienna,  and  more  recently  it  gave  offence 
in  Rome  at  a  moment  when  popular  feeling  was  excited 
as  to  the  relations  of  Austria  with  the  Balkan  States. 
Now  if  a  comedy  so  remote  from  political  passion  as 
Arms  and  The  Man  can,  merely  because  it  refers  to  po- 
litical facts,  become  so  inconvenient  and  inopportune 
that  Foreign  Offices  take  the  trouble  to  have  its  produc- 
tion postponed,  what  may  not  be  the  effect  of  what  is 


354  The  She\nng-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

called  a  patriotic  drama  produced  at  a  moment  when  the 
balance  is  quivcrinjj  hot  ween  peace  and  war?  Is  there 
not  something  to  he  said  for  a  political  crnsorsliij).  if 
not  for  a  moral  one?  May  not  those  continental  govern- 
ments who  leave  the  stage  practically  free  in  every  other 
respect,  but  muzzle  it  politically,  be  justified  by  the 
practical  exigencies  of  the  situation? 

The  Diircrence  between  Law  and 
Censorship 

The  answer  is  that  a  pamphlet,  a  newspaper  article,  or 
a  resolution  moved  at  a  political  meeting  can  do  all  the 
mischief  that  a  play  can,  and  often  more;  yet  we  do  not 
set  up  a  permanent  censorship  of  the  ])ress  or  of  jjolitical 
meetings.  Any  journalist  may  jjublish  an  article,  any 
demagogue  may  deliver  a  speech  without  giving  notice 
to  the  government  or  obtaining  its  licence.  The  risk  of 
such  freedom  is  great;  but  as  it  is  the  price  of  our  po- 
litical liberty,  we  think  it  worth  paying.  We  may  abro- 
gate it  in  emergencies  by  a  Coercion  Act,  a  suspension 
of  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act.  or  a  proclamation  of  martial 
law,  just  as  we  stop  the  traffic  in  a  street  during  a  fire, 
or  shoot  thieves  at  sight  if  they  loot  after  an  earthquake. 
But  when  the  emergency  is  past,  liberty  is  restored 
everywhere  except  in  the  theatre.  The  Act  of  18i3  is  a 
permanent  Coercion  Act  for  the  theatre,  a  permanent 
suspension  of  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act  as  far  as  plays  are 
concerned,  a  permanent  proclamation  of  martial  law  with 
a  single  official  substituted  for  a  court  martial.  It  is,  in 
fact,  assumed  that  actors,  playwrights,  and  theatre  man- 
agers are  dangerous  and  dissolute  characters  whose  ex- 
istence creates  a  chronic  state  of  emergency,  and  who 
must  be  treated  as  earthquake  looters  are  treated.  It  is 
not  necessary  now  to  discredit  this  assumption.  It  was 
broken   down   by   the   late    Sir   Henry   Irving   when   he 


The  Rejected  Statement  355 

finally  shamed  the  Government  into  extending  to  his  pro- 
fession the  official  recognition  enjoyed  by  the  other 
branches  of  fine  art.  To-day  we  have  on  the  roll  of 
knighthood  actors,  autliors,  and  managers.  The  rogue 
and  vagabond  theory  of  tlie  depravity  of  the  theatre  is 
as  dead  officially  as  it  is  in  general  society ;  and  with  it 
has  perished  the  sole  excuse  for  the  Act  of  1813  and 
for  the  denial  to  the  theatre  of  the  liberties  secured,  at 
far  greater  social  risk,  to  the  press  and  the  platform. 

Tliere  is  no  question  here  of  giving  the  theatre  any 
l.irgcr  liberties  than  the  jircss  and  tlie  platform,  or  of 
claiming  larger  jnnvers  for  Sliakcspear  to  eulogize  Brutus 
than  Lord  Rosebery  has  to  eulogize  Cromwell.  The 
abolition  of  the  censorship  does  not  involve  the  abolition 
of  tlie  magistrate  and  of  the  whole  civil  and  criminal 
code.  On  the  contrary  it  would  make  the  theatre  more 
effectually  subject  to  them  tlian  it  is  at  present;  for  once 
a  play  now  runs  the  gauntlet  of  the  censorship,  it  is 
practically  placed  above  the  law.  It  is  almost  humiliat- 
ing to  have  to  demonstrate  the  essential  difference  be- 
tween a  censor  and  a  magistrate  or  a  sanitary  inspector; 
but  it  is  impossible  to  ignore  the  carelessness  with  which 
even  distinguished  critics  of  the  tlieatre  assume  that  all 
the  arguments  proper  to  the  support  of  a  magistracy  and 
body  of  jurisprudence  apply  equally  to  a  censorship. 

A  magistrate  has  laws  to  administer:  a  censor  has 
nothing  but  his  own  opinion.  A  judge  leaves  the  ques- 
tion of  guilt  to  the  jury:  the  Censor  is  jury  and  judge 
as  well  as  lawgiver.  A  magistrate  may  be  strongly 
prejudiced  against  an  atheist  or  an  anti-vaccinator,  just 
as  a  sanitary  inspector  may  have  formed  a  careful  opin- 
ion that  drains  are  less  healthy  than  cesspools ;  but  the 
magistrate  must  allow  the  atheist  to  affirm  instead  of 
to  swear,  and  must  grant  the  anti-vaccinator  an  exemp- 
tion certificate,  when  their  demands  are  lawfully  made; 
and  in  cities  the  inspector  must  compel  the  builder  to 


356  The  She^ing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

make  drains  nnd  must  prosecute  him  if  he  makes  cess- 
pools.    Tlic  law  may  be  only  the  intolerance  of  the  com- 
nuinitv;  but  it  is  a  detined  and  liniitrd  intolerance.     The 
limitation  is  sometimes  carried  so  far  that  a  judge  can- 
not  inlliet   the  penalty    for  housebreaking   on   a   burglar 
•who  can  prove  that  he  found  the  door  open  and  there- 
fore made  only  an  unlawful  entry.     On  the  other  hand, 
it  is  sometimes  so  vague,  as  for  example  in  the  case  of 
the   Anuriean   law  against  obscenity,  that  it  makes  the 
magistrate  virtually  a  censor.     But  in  the  main  a  citizen 
can  ascertain  what  he  may  do  and  what  Jie  may  not  do; 
and,  thougli  no  one  knows  better  than  a  magistrate  that 
a    single    ill-conducted    family    may   demoralize   a   whole 
street,  no  magistrate  can  imprison  or  otherwise  restrain 
its   members   on  the   ground   that  their   immorality   may 
corrupt    their   neighbors.      He   can   prevent    any   citizen 
from   carrying  certain   specified    weapons,   but   not   from 
h.uulling   ])okers,    table-knives,   bricks   or  bottles   of  cor- 
rosive   fluid,   on   the   ground  that   he   might   use  them   to 
comm.it  murder  or  inHiet  malicious   injury.      He  has   no 
general  power  to  prevent  citizens  from  selling  unhealthy 
or  poisonous  substances,  or  judging  for  themselves  what 
substances    are    unhealthy    and    what    wholesome,    what 
poisonous  and   what    innocuous:   what   he   can   do    is   to 
prevent    anybody    who    has    not    a    specific    qualification 
from  selling  certain  specified  poisons  of  which  a  sched- 
ule is  kept     Nobody  is  forbidden  to  sell  minerals  witli- 
out  a  licence;  but  everybody  is  forbidden  to  sell  silver 
without  a   licence.      When  the  law  has   forgotten   some 
atrocious   sin — for  instance,  contracting  marriage  whilst 
suffering   from  contagious   disease — the   magistrate   can- 
not   arrest   or   punish   the   wrongdoer,    however   he    may 
abhor  his  wickedness.     In  sliort,  no  man  is  lawfully  at 
the   mercy   of  the  magistrate's   personal  caprice,   preju- 
dice, ignorance,   superstition,  temper,   stupidity,   resent- 
ment, timidity,  ambition,  or  private  conviction.      But  a 


The  Rejected  Statement  357 

plaj'Avright's  livelihood,  his  reputation,  and  his  inspira- 
tion and  mission  are  at  the  personal  mercy  of  the  Censor. 
The  two  do  not  stand,  as  the  criminal  and  the  judge 
stand,  in  tlie  presence  of  a  law  that  binds  them  both 
equally,  and  was  made  by  neither  of  them,  but  by  the 
deliberative  collective  wisdom  of  the  communitv.  The 
only  law  that  alT^-cts  them  is  the  Act  of  ISi.i,  which  em- 
))owers  one  of  them  to  do  absolutely  and  finally  what  he 
likes  with  the  other's  work.  And  when  it  is  remembered 
that  the  slave  in  this  case  is  the  man  whose  profession  is 
that  of  Eschylus  and  Euripides,  of  Shakespear  and 
Goethe,  of  Tolstoy  and  Ibsen,  and  the  master  the  holder 
of  a  party  ai)])ointment  which  by  the  nature  of  its  duties 
practically  excludes  the  possibility  of  its  acceptance  by 
a  serious  statesman  or  great  lawyer,  it  will  be  seen  that 
the  playwrights  are  justified  in  reproaching  the  fraraers 
of  that  Act  for  having  failed  not  only  to  appreciate  the 
immense  importance  of  the  theatre  as  a  most  powerful 
instrument  for  teaching  the  nation  how  and  what  to 
think  and  feel,  but  even  to  conceive  that  those  who  make 
their  living  by  the  theatre  are  normal  human  beings  with 
the  common  rights  of  English  citizens.  In  this  extrem- 
ity of  inconsiderateness  it  is  not  surprising  that  they  also 
did  not  trouble  themselves  to  study  the  difference  be- 
tween a  censor  and  a  magistrate.  And  it  will  be  found 
tliat  almost  all  the  people  who  disinterestedly  defend 
the  censorship  today  are  defending  him  on  the  assump- 
tion that  there  is  no  constitutional  difference  between 
him  and  any  other  functionary  whose  duty  it  is  to  re- 
strain crime  and  disorder. 

One  further  difference  remains  to  be  noted.  As  a 
magistrate  grows  old  his  mind  may  change  or  decay; 
but  the  law  remains  the  same.  The  censorship  of  the 
theatre  fluctuates  with  every  change  in  the  views  and 
character  of  the  man  who  exercises  it.  And  what  this 
implies  can  only  be  appreciated  by  those  who  can  imag- 


358  The  She\dng-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

ine  wlmt  the  cffict  on  the  mind  must  bo  of  the  duty  of 
reading  througli  every  play  that  is  produced  in  the  king- 
dom year  in,  year  out. 


Why  ^he  Lord  Chamhcrlain? 

^Tiat  may  be  caUed  tlie  higli  political  case  against 
censorship  as  a  principle  is  now  complete.  The  plead- 
ings are  those  whicli  have  already  freed  books  and  pul- 
pits and  political  platforms  in  England  from  censor- 
ship, if  not  from  occasional  legal  persecutiqn.  The  stage 
alone  remains  under  a  censorshij)  of  a  grotesquely  un- 
suitable kind.  No  play  can  bo  performed  if  the  Lord 
Chamborlain  happens  to  disa})prove  of  it.  And  thf  Lord 
C'liainborlain's  functions  have  no  sort  of  relationship  to 
dramatic  literature.  A  great  judge  of  literature,  a  far- 
seeing  statesman,  a  born  champion  of  liberty  of  con- 
scionoe  and  iiitolloetual  integrity — say  a  Milton,  a  Ches- 
terfield, a  Bontham — would  be  a  very  bad  Lord  Cham- 
berlain: so  bad,  in  fact,  that  his  exclusion  from  such  a 
post  may  be  rogardod  as  docrood  by  natural  law.  On 
the  otiior  hand,  a  good  Lord  Chamberlain  would  be  a 
stickler  for  morals  in  the  narrowest  sense,  a  busy-body, 
a  man  to  wliom  a  matter  of  two  inches  in  the  length  of  a 
gentleman's  sword  or  the  absence  of  a  feather  from  a 
lady's  lioad-dress  would  be  a  graver  matter  than  the 
Habeas  Corpus  Act.  The  Lord  Chamborlain,  as  Censor 
of  the  tlicatro.  is  a  direct  descendant  of  the  King's  Mas- 
ter of  the  Revels,  appointed  in  l.oli  by  Henry  VHL  to 
keep  order  among  the  players  and  musicians  of  that  day 
when  they  performed  at  Court.  This  first  appearance 
of  the  theatrical  censor  in  politics  as  the  whipper-in  of 
the  player,  with  its  conception  of  the  player  as  a  rich 
man's  servant  hired  to  amuse  him,  and,  outside  his  pro- 
fessional duties,  as  a  gay,  disorderly,  anarchic  spoilt 
child,  half  privileged,  half  outlawed,  probably  as  much 


The  Rejected  Statement  359 

vagabond  as  actor,  is  the  real  foundation  of  the  subjec- 
tion of  the  whole  profession,  actops,  managers,  authors 
and  all,  to  the  despotic  authority  of  an  officer  whose 
business  it  is  to  preserve  decorum  among  menials.  It 
must  be  remembered  tliat  it  was  not  until  a  hundred 
years  later,  in  tlie  reaction  against  the  Puritans,  that  a 
woman  could  appear  on  the  English  stage  without  being 
pelted  off  as  the  Italian  actresses  were.  The  theatrical 
profession  was  regarded  as  a  shameless  one;  and  it  is 
only  of  late  years  that  actresses  have  at  last  succeeded  in 
living  down  the  assuni))tion  that  actress  and  prostitute  are 
synonymous  terms,  and  made  good  their  position  in  re- 
spectabk"  society.  This  makes  tlie  surviv.d  of  the  old 
ostracism  in  the  Act  of  1813  intolerably  galling;  and 
though  it  explains  the  apparently  unaccountable  absurd- 
ity of  choosing  as  Censor  of  dramatic  literature  an  offi- 
cial whose  functions  and  qualifications  have  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  literature,  it  also  explains  why  the 
present  arrangement  is  not  only  criticized  as  an  institu- 
tion, but  resented  as  an  insult. 

The  Diplomatic  Objection  to  the  Lord 
Chamberlain 

There  is  another  reason,  quite  unconnected  with  the 
susceptibilities  of  authors,  Avhich  makes  it  undesirable 
that  a  member  of  the  King's  Household  should  be  re- 
sponsible for  the  character  and  tendency  of  plays.  The 
drama,  dealing  with  all  departments  of  human  life,  is 
necessarily  political.  Recent  events  have  shown — what 
indeed  needed  no  demonstration — that  it  is  impossible 
to  prevent  inferences  being  made,  both  at  home  and 
abroad,  from  the  action  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain.  The 
most  talked-about  play  of  the  present  year  (1909),  An 
Englishman's  Home,  has  for  its  main  interest  an  inva- 
sion of  England  by  a  fictitious  power  which  is  under- 


360  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

stood,  as  it  is  meant  to  be  understood,  to  represent  Ger- 
many. The  lesson  tiught  by  the  play  is  the  danger  of 
invasion  and  the  need  for  every  English  citizen  to  be  a 
soldier.  The  Lord  Chamberlain  licensed  tliis  play,  but 
refused  to  license  a  parody  of  it.  Shortly  afterwards  he 
refused  to  license  another  play  in  which  the  fear  of  a 
German  invasion  was  ridiculed.  The  German  press 
drew  the  inevitable  inference  that  the  Lord  Chamberlain 
was  an  anti-German  alarmist,  and  that  his  oj^inions  were 
a  reflection  of  those  ])revailing  in  St.  James's  Palace. 
Immediately  after  tliis,  the  Lord  Chamberlain  licensed 
the  play.  M'hether  the  inference,  as  far  as  the  Lord 
Chamberlain  was  concerned,  was  justified,  is  of  no  con- 
sequence. What  is  important  is  that  it  was  sure  to  be 
made,  justly  or  unjustly,  and  extended  from  the  Lord 
Chamberlain  to  the  Tiirone. 


The  Ohjection  of  Court  Etiquet 

There  is  another  objection  to  the  Lord  Chamberlain's 
ccnsorsliip  which  aflfects  the  author's  choice  of  subject. 
Formerly  very  little  heed  was  given  in  England  to  the 
susceptibilities  of  foreign  courts.  For  instance,  the  no- 
tion that  tlie  Mikado  of  Japan  should  be  as  sacred  to  the 
English  jjjaywright  as  he  is  to  the  Japanese  Lord  Cham- 
berlain would  have  seemed  grotesque  a  generation  ago. 
Now  that  the  maintenance  of  entente  cordiale  between 
nations  is  one  of  the  most  prominent  and  most  useful 
functions  of  the  crown,  the  freedom  of  authors  to  deal 
with  political  subjects,  even  historically,  is  seriously 
threatened  by  the  way  in  which  the  censorship  makes 
the  King  responsible  for  the  contents  of  every  play. 
One  author — the  writer  of  these  lines,  in  fact — has  long 
desired  to  dramatize  the  life  of  ^Lahomet.  But  the  pos- 
sibility of  a  protest  from  the  Turkish  Ambassador — or 
the  fear  of  it — causing  the  Lord  Chamberlain  to  refuse 


The  Rejected  Statement  361 

to  license  such  a  play  has  prevented  the  play  from  being 
written.  Now,  if  the  censorship  were  abolished,  nobody 
but  the  author  could  be  held  responsible  for  the  play. 
The  Turkish  Ambassador  docs  not  now  protest  against 
the  publication  of  Carlyle's  essay  on  the  prophet,  or  of 
the  English  translations  of  the  Koran  in  the  prefaces  to 
which  Mahomet  is  criticized  as  an  impostor,  or  of  the 
older  books  in  wliich  he  is  reviled  as  Mahomid  and 
classed  with  the  devil  himself.  But  if  these  publications 
had  to  be  licensed  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain  it  would  be 
impossible  for  the  King  to  allow  the  licence  to  be  issued, 
as  he  would  thereby  be  made  responsible  for  the  opinions 
expressed.  This  restriction  of  the  historical  drama  is  an 
unmixed  evil.  Great  religious  leaders  are  more  interest- 
ing and  more  important  subjects  for  the  dramatist  than 
great  conquerors.  It  is  a  misfortune  that  public  opinion 
would  not  tolerate  a  dramatization  of  Mahomet  in  Con- 
stantinople. But  to  prohibit  it  here,  where  public  opin- 
ion would  tolerate  it,  is  an  absurdity  which,  if  applied  in 
all  directions,  would  make  it  impossible  for  the  Queen  to 
receive  a  Turkish  ambassador  without  veiling  herself, 
or  the  Dean  and  Chapter  of  St.  Paul's  to  display  a  cross 
(5n  the  summit  of  their  Cathedral  in  a  city  occupied 
largely  and  influentially  by  Jews.  Court  etiquet  is  no 
doubt  an  excellent  thing  for  court  ceremonies ;  but 
to  attempt  to  impose  it  on  the  drama  is  about  as  sensible 
as  an  attempt  to  make  everybody  in  London  wear  court 
dress. 

Why  not  an  Enlightened  Censorship? 

In  the  above  cases  the  general  question  of  censorship 
is  separable  from  the  question  of  the  present  form  of  it. 
Every  one  who  condemns  the  principle  of  censorship 
must  also  condemn  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  control  of 
the  drama;  but  those  who  approve  of  the  principle  do 


362  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

not  necessarily  approve  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain  being 
the  Censor  ex  officio.  They  may,  however,  be  entirely 
opposed  to  popular  liberties,  and  may  conclude  from 
what  has  been  said,  not  that  the  stage  should  be  made  as 
free  as  the  church,  press,  or  platform,  but  that  these  in- 
stitutions should  be  censored  as  strictly  as  the  stage.  It 
will  seem  «)l)vious  to  them  that  nothing  is  needed  to  re- 
move all  objections  to  a  censorsliip  except  the  {)lacing  of 
its  jiowers  in  better  hands. 

Now  though  the  transfer  of  the  censorship  to,  say, 
the  Lord  Chancellor,  or  the  Primate,  or  a  Cabinet  Min- 
ister, would  be  much  less  humiliating  to  the  persons  im- 
mediately concerned,  the  inherent  vices  of  the  institution 
would  not  be  appreciably  less  disastrous.  They  would 
even  be  aggravated,  for  reasons  which  do  not  appiar  on 
the  surface,  and  therefore  need  to  be  followed  with  some 
attention. 

It  is  often  said  that  the  public  is  the  real  censor. 
That  this  is  to  some  extent  true  is  proved  by  the  fact 
that  plays  which  are  licensed  and  produced  in  London 
have  to  be  expurgated  for  the  j)rovinces.  This  does  not 
mean  that  the  {provinces  are  more  strait-laced,  but  simply 
that  in  many  provincial  towns  there  is  only  one  theatre 
for  all  classes  and  all  tastes,  whereas  in  London  there 
are  separate  theatres  for  separate  sections  of  playgoers; 
so  that,  for  example.  Sir  Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree  can 
conduct  His  >Lajesty's  Theatre  without  the  slightest  re- 
gard to  the  tastes  of  the  frequenters  of  the  Gaiety  The- 
atre; and  Mr.  George  Edwardes  can  conduct  the  Gaiety 
Theatre  without  catering  in  any  way  for  lovers  of  Shakc- 
s})ear.  Thus  the  farcical  comedy  which  has  scandalized 
the  critics  in  London  by  the  libertinage  of  its  jests  is 
played  to  the  respectable  dress  circle  of  Northampton 
with  these  same  jests  slurred  over  so  as  to  be  imper- 
ceptible by  even  the  most  prurient  spectator.  The  pub- 
lic, in  short,  takes  care  that  nobody  shall  outrage  it. 


The  Rejected  Statement  363 

But  the  public  also  takes  care  that  nobody  shall  starve 
it,  or  regulate  its  dramatic  diet  as  a  schoolmistress  regu- 
lates tlic  reading  of  lur  pupils.  Even  when  it  wishes  to 
be  debauched,  no  censor  can — or  at  least  no  censor  does 
— stand  out  against  it.  If  a  play  is  irresistibly  anuising, 
it  gets  licensed  no  matter  what  its  moral  aspuct  may  be. 
A  brilliant  instance  is  the  Divor^ons  of  the  late  Victorien 
Sardou,  which  may  not  have  been  the  naughtiest  play  of 
the  li)th  crntury,  but  was  certainly  the  very  naughtiest 
that  any  Kiiglish  manager  in  his  senses  would  have  ven- 
tured to  jjroduce.  Nevertheless,  being  a  very  amusing 
play,  it  ])assed  the  licenser  with  tlie  exception  of  a  ref- 
erence to  impotence  as  a  ground  for  divorce  which  no 
English  actress  would  have  ventured  on  in  any  case. 
Within  the  last  few  months  a  very  amusing  comedy  with 
a  strongly  })olygamous  moral  was  found  irresistible  by 
the  Lord  Chamberlain.  Plenty  of  fun  and  a  happy  end- 
ing will  get  anytliing  licensed,  because  the  public  will 
have  it  so,  and  the  Examiner  of  Plays,  as  the  holder  of 
the  office  testified  before  the  Commission  of  1892  (Re- 
port, page  330),  feels  with  the  public,  and  knows  that  his 
office  could  not  survive  a  widespread  unpopularity.  In 
short,  the  support  of  the  mob — that  is,  of  the  unreason- 
ing, unorganized,  uninstructed  mass  of  popular  senti- 
ment— is  indispensable  to  the  censorship  as  it  exists  to- 
day in  England.  This  is  the  explanation  of  the  tol- 
eration by  the  Lord  Chamberlain  of  coarse  and  vicious 
plays.  It  is  not  long  since  a  judge  before  whom  a 
licensed  play  came  in  the  course  of  a  lawsuit  expressed 
his  scandalized  astonishment  at  the  licensing  of  such  a 
work.  Eminent  churchmen  ha\e  made  similar  protests. 
In  some  plays  the  simulation  of  criminal  assaults  on  the 
stage  has  been  carried  to  a  point  at  which  a  step  further 
would  have  involved  the  interference  of  the  police.  Pro- 
vided the  treatment  of  the  theme  is  gaily  or  hypocrit- 
ically popular,  and  the  ending  happy,  the  indulgence  of 


304  Tlie  Slie wing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

the  Lord  C'lianilHTlain  can  be  counted  on.  On  the  othcj 
hand,  anythinj^  unpleasing  and  unpopular  is  rigorouslj 
censored.  Adultery  and  prostitution  are  tolerated  and 
even  encouraged  to  such  an  extent  that  plays  which  do 
not  deal  with  them  are  commonly  said  not  to  be  plays 
at  all.  But  if  any  of  the  unpleasing  consequences  of 
adultery  and  prostitution — for  instance,  an  uti.s'uccessful 
illigil  operation  (successful  ones  are  tolerated)  or  vene- 
real disea.se — are  mentioned,  the  pliy  is  prohibited. 
This  princijile  of  shielding  the  playgoer  from  unpleas- 
ant reflections  is  carried  so  far  that  when  a  play  was  sub- 
mitted for  license  in  which  the  relations  of  a  prostitute 
with  all  the  male  characters  in  tlie  piece  was  described 
as  "  immoral,"  the  P^xaminer  of  Plays  objected  to  that 
passage,  though  he  made  no  objtction  to  the  relations 
themselves.  The  Lord  Chamberlain  dare  not,  in  sliort, 
attempt  to  exclude  from  the  st.ige  the  tragedies  of  mur- 
der and  lust,  or  the  farces  of  mendacity,  adultery,  and 
dissolute  gaiety  in  which  vulgar  people  delight.  But 
when  these  same  vulgar  people  are  threatened  with  an 
Tm]K)pular  play  in  which  dissoluteness  is  shown  to  be  no 
laughing  matter,  it  is  jiroliibited  at  once  amid  the  vulgar 
.•:pplause,  the  net  result  being  that  vice  is  made  delight- 
ful and  virtue  banned  by  the  very  institution  which  is 
supported  on  the  understanding  tJiat  it  produces  exactly 
the  opposite  result. 

The  Weakness  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain's 
Department 

Now  comes  the  question,  'Why  is  our  censorship, 
armed  as  it  is  with  apparently  autocratic  powers,  so 
scandalously  timid  in  the  face  of  the  mob?  Why  is  it 
not  as  autocratic  in  dealing  with  playwrights  below  the 
average  as  with  those  above  it.''  The  answer  is  that  its 
position  is  really  a  very  weak  one.     It  has  no  direct  co- 


The  Rejected  Statement  365 

ercive  forces,  no  funds  to  institute  prosecutions  and  re- 
cover the  legal  penalties  of  defying  it,  no  powers  of  ar- 
rest or  imprisonment,  in  short,  none  of  the  guarantees 
of  autocracy.  What  it  can  do  is  to  refuse  to  renew  the 
licence  of  a  theatre  at  which  its  orders  are  disobeyed. 
When  it  happens  that  a  theatre  is  about  to  be  demol- 
ished, as  was  the  case  recently  with  the  Imperial  Theatre 
after  it  had  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  Wesleyan  Meth- 
odists, unlicen"- "d  plays  can  be  performed,  teclniicjilly 
in  private,  but  regally  in  full  publicity,  without  risk. 
The  prohibited  plays  of  Brieux  and  Ibsen  have  been 
performed  in  London  in  this  way  with  complete  impun- 
ity. But  the  impunity  is  not  confined  to  condemned  the- 
atres. Not  long  ago  a  West  End  manager  allowed  a 
prohibited  play  to  be  performed  at  his  theatre,  taking 
his  chance  of  losing  his  licence  in  consequence.  The 
event  proved  that  the  manager  was  justified  in  regarding 
the  risk  as  negligible;  for  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  rem- 
edy— tlie  closing  of  a  popular  and  well-conducted  the- 
atre— was  far  too  extreme  to  be  practicable.  Unless 
the  play  had  so  outraged  public  opinion  as  to  make  the 
manager  odious  and  provoke  a  clamor  for  his  exemplary 
punishment,  the  Lord  Chamberlain  could  only  have  had 
his  revenge  at  the  risk  of  having  his  powers  abolished  as 
unsupportably  tyrannical. 

The  Lord  Chamberlain  tlicn  has  his  powers  so  adjusted 
that  he  is  tyrannical  just  where  it  is  important  that  he 
should  be  tolerant,  and  tolerant  just  where  he  could 
screw  up  the  standard  a  little  by  being  tyrannical.  His 
plea  that  there  are  unmentionable  depths  to  which  man- 
agers and  authors  would  descend  if  he  did  not  prevent 
them  is  disproved  by  the  plain  fact  that  his  indulgence 
goes  as  far  as  the  police,  and  sometimes  further  than 
the  public,  will  let  it.  If  our  judges  had  so  little  power 
there  would  be  no  law  in  England.  If  our  churches  had 
so   much,  there  would  be  no   theatre,  no  literature,  no 


366   The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

science,   no   art,   possibly   no   Engl.ind.      The   institution 
is  at  once   absurdly   despotic  and  abjectly  weak. 


An  Enlightened  Censorship  still  worse 
than  the  Lord  Chamherlain's 

Clearly  a  censorsliij)  of  judges,  bishops,  or  statesmen 
■would  not  be  in  this  abject  condition.  It  would  no  doubt 
make  short  work  of  the  coarse  and  vicious  ])ieces  which 
now  enjoy  the  protection  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  or  at 
least  of  those  of  them  in  which  the  vulgarity  and  vice 
are  discoverable  by  merely  reading  the  prompt  copy. 
But  it  would  certainly  disappoint  the  main  hope  of  its 
advocates :  the  hojie  that  it  would  jirotect  and  foster  the 
higher  drama  It  Mould  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  On 
the  contrary,  it  would  inevitably  supjiress  it  more  com- 
pletely than  the  Lord  Chamberlain  does,  because  it 
would  understand  it  better.  The  one  play  of  Ibsen's 
which  is  prohibited  on  the  English  stage,  Ghosts,  is  far 
less  subversive  than  A  Doll's  House,  But  the  Lord 
Chamberlain  does  not  meddle  with  such  far-reaching 
matters  as  the  tendency  of  a  j^lay.  He  refuses  to  license 
Ghosts  exactly  as  he  would  refuse  to  license  Hamlet 
if  it  were  submitted  to  him  as  a  new  play.  He  would 
license  even  Hamlet  if  certain  alterations  were  made  in 
it.  He  would  disallow  the  incestuous  relationship  be- 
tween the  King  and  Queen.  He  would  probably  insist 
on  the  substitution  of  some  fictitious  country  for  Den- 
mark in  deference  to  the  near  relations  of  our  reign- 
ing house  with  that  realm.  He  would  certainly  make 
it  an  absolute  condition  that  the  closet  scene,  in  which 
a  son,  in  an  agony  of  shame  and  revulsion,  reproaches 
his  mother  for  her  relations  with  his  uncle,  should  be 
struck  out  as  unbearably  horrifying  and  improper.  But 
compliance  with  these  conditions  would  satisfy  him.     He 


The  Rejected  Statement  367 

would  raise  no  speculative  objections  to  the  tendency  of 
the  play. 

This  indifference  to  the  larger  issues  of  a  theatrical 
performance  could  not  be  safely  predicated  of  an  en- 
lightened censorship.  Such  a  censorship  might  be  more 
liberal  in  its  toleration  of  matters  which  are  only  ob- 
jected to  on  the  ground  that  they  are  not  usually  dis- 
cussed in  general  social  conversation  or  in  the  presence 
of  children;  but  it  would  presumably  have  a  far  deeper 
insiglit  to  and  concern  for  the  real  ethical  tendency  of 
the  Jilay.  For  instance,  had  it  been  in  existence  during 
the  last  quarter  of  a  century,  it  would  have  perceived 
that  those  plays  of  Ibsen's  which  have  been  licensed 
without  question  are  fundamentally  immoral  to  an  alto- 
gether extraordinary  degree.  Every  one  of  them  is  a 
deliberate  act  of  war  on  society  as  at  present  consti- 
tuted. Religion,  marriage,  ordinary  respectability,  are 
subjected  to  a  destructive  exposure  and  criticism  which 
seems  to  mere  moralists — that  is,  to  persons  of  no  more 
than  average  depth  of  mind — to  be  diabolical.  It  is  no 
exaggeration  to  say  that  Ibsen  gained  his  overwhelming 
reputation  by  undertaking  a  task  of  no  less  magnitude 
than  changing  the  mind  of  Europe  with  the  view  of 
changing  its  morals.  Now  you  cannot  license  work  of 
that  sort  without  making  yourself  responsible  for  it. 
The  Lord  Chamberlain  accepted  the  responsibility  be- 
cause he  did  not  understand  it  or  concern  himself  about 
it.  But  what  really  enlightened  and  conscientious  official 
dare  take  such  a  responsibility?  The  strength  of  char- 
acter and  range  of  vision  which  made  Ibsen  capable  of 
it  are  not  to  be  expected  from  any  official,  however  emi- 
nent. It  is  true  that  an  enlightened  censor  might,  whilst 
shrinking  even  with  horror  from  Ibsen's  views,  perceive 
that  any  nation  which  suppressed  Ibsen  would  presently 
find  itself  falling  behind  the  nations  which  tolerated  him 
just  as  Spain  fell  behind  England;  but  the  proper  action 


368  The  She^^^ng-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

to  take  on  such  a  conviction  is  the  abdication  of  censor- 
ship, not  the  jiractise  of  it.  As  long  as  a  censor  is  a 
censor,  he  cannot  endorse  by  his  licence  opinions  which 
seem  to  him  dangerously  heretical. 

We  may,  tlierefore,  conclude  that  the  more  enlightened 
a  censorsliip  is,  the  worse  it  would  serve  us.  The  Lord 
Chamberlain,  an  obviously  unenlightened  Censor,  pro- 
hibits (jhosts  and  licenses  all  the  rest  of  Ibsen's  plays. 
An  enlightened  censorship  would  possibly  license  Ghosts; 
but  it  would  certainly  supjiress  many  of, the  other  plays. 
It  would  supjiress  subversiveness  as  well  as  what  is 
called  bad  taste.  The  Lord  Chamberlain  prohibits  one 
play  by  Sophocles  because,  like  Hamlet,  it  mentions  the 
subject  of  incest;  but  an  enlightened  censorship  might 
suppress  all  the  plays  of  Euripides  because  Euripides, 
like  Ibsen,  was  a  revolutionary  Freethinker.  Under  the 
Lord  Chamberlain,  we  can  smuggle  a  good  deal  of  im- 
moral drama  and  almost  as  much  coarsely  vulgar  and 
furtively  lascivious  drama  as  we  like.  Under  a  college 
of  cardinals,  or  bishops,  or  judges,  or  any  other  con- 
ceivable form  of  experts  in  morals,  philosophy,  religion, 
or  politics,  we  should  get  little  except  stagnant  medi- 
ocrity. 

The  Practical  Impossibilities  of 
Censorship 

There  is,  besides,  a  crushing  material  difficulty  in  the 
way  of  an  enlightened  censorship.  It  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  the  work  involved  would  drive  a  man  of 
any  intellectual  rank  mad.  Consider,  for  example,  the 
Christmas  pantomimes.  Imagine  a  judge  of  the  High 
Court,  or  an  archbishop,  or  a  Cabinet  Minister,  or  an 
eminent  man  of  letters,  earning  his  living  by  reading 
through  the  mass  of  trivial  doggerel  represented  by  all 
the  pantomimes  which  are  put  into  rehearsal  simultane- 
ously at  the  end  of  every  year.     The  proposal  to  put 


The  Rejected  Statement  369 

such  mind-destroying  drudgery  upon  an  offieial  of  tlie 
class  inij)lied  by  the  demand  for  an  enlightened  censor- 
ship falls  through  the  moment  we  realize  what  it  implies 
in  2)ractice. 

Another  material  difficulty  is  that  no  play  can  be 
judged  by  merely  reading  the  dialogue.  To  be  fully 
cflfective  a  censor  should  witness  the  performance.  The 
mise-en-scene  of  a  play  is  as  much  a  part  of  it  as  the 
words  spoken  on  the  stage.  No  censor  could  possibly 
object  to  such  a  speech  as  "  Might  I  sjjeak  to  you  for 
a  moment,  miss";  yet  that  a])])arently  innocent  phrase 
has  often  been  made  otfensively  improper  on  the  stage 
by  popular  low  comedians,  with  the  effect  of  changing 
the  whole  character  and  meaning  of  the  play  as  under- 
stood by  the  official  Examiner.  In  one  of  the  plays  of 
the  present  season,  the  dialogue  was  that  of  a  crude 
melodrama  dealing  in  the  most  conventionall}'  correct 
manner  with  the  fortunes  of  a  good-hearted  and  virtu- 
ous girl.  Its  morality  was  that  of  the  Sunday  school. 
But  the  principal  actress,  between  two  speeches  which 
contained  no  reference  to  her  action,  changed  her  under- 
clothing on  the  stage?  It  is  true  that  in  this  case  the 
actress  was  so  much  better  than  her  part  that  she  suc- 
ceeded in  turning  what  was  meant  as  an  impropriety  into 
an  inoffensive  stroke  of  realism ;  yet  it  is  none  the  less 
clear  that  stage  business  of  this  character,  on  which 
there  can  be  no  check  except  the  actual  presence  of  a 
censor  in  the  theatre,  might  convert  any  dialogue,  how- 
ever innocent,  into  just  the  sort  of  entertainment  against 
which  the  Censor  is  supposed  to  protect  the  public. 

It  was  this  practical  impossibility  that  prevented  the 
London  County  Council  from  attempting  to  apply  a  cen- 
sorship of  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  pattern  to  the  Lon- 
don music  halls.  A  proposal  to  examine  all  entertain- 
ments before  permitting  their  performance  was  actually 
made ;  and  it  was  abandoned,  not  in  the  least  as  contrary 


370  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

to  the  liberty  of  the  stage,  but  because  the  executive 
problem  of  how  to  do  it  at  once  reduced  the  proposal  to 
absurdity.  Even  if  the  Council  devoted  all  its  time  to 
witnessing  rcliearsals  of  variety  performances,  and  put- 
ting each  item  to  the  vote,  possibly  after  a  prolonged 
discussion  followed  by  a  division,  the  work  would  still 
fall  into  arrear.  No  committee  could  be  induced  to  un- 
dertake such  a  task.  The  attachment  of  an  inspector  of 
morals  to  each  music  hall  would  have  meant  an  appre- 
ciable addition  to  the  ratepayers'  burden.  In  the  face 
of  such  difficulties  the  proposal  melted  away.  Had  it 
been  pushed  through,  and  the  inspectors  appointed,  each 
of  them  would  have  become  a  censor,  and  the  whole  body 
of  iiisi)ictors  would  have  become  a  police  des  moeurs. 
Those  who  know  the  history  of  such  police  forces  on  the 
continent  will  understand  how  impossible  it  would  be 
to  procure  inspectors  whose  characters  would  stand  the 
strain  of  their  opportunities  of  corruption,  both  pecu- 
niary and  personal,  at  such  salaries  as  a  local  authority 
could  be  persuaded  to  offer. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  the  present  censorship 
should  be  supplemented  by  a  board  of  experts,  who 
should  deal,  not  with  the  whole  mass  of  plays  sent  up 
for  license,  but  only  those  which  the  Examiner  of  Plays 
refuses  to  pass.  As  the  number  of  plays  which  the  Ex- 
aminer refuses  to  pass  is  never  great  enough  to  occupy 
a  Board  in  permanent  session  with  regular  salaries,  and 
as  casual  employment  is  not  compatible  with  public  re- 
sponsibility, this  proposal  would  work  out  in  practice  as 
an  addition  to  the  duties  of  some  existing  functionary. 
A  Secretary  of  State  would  be  objectionable  as  likel}'  to 
be  biased  politically.  An  ecclesiastical  referee  might  be 
biassed  against  the  theatre  altogether.  A  judge  in  cham- 
bers would  be  the  proper  authority.  This  plan  would 
combine  the  inevitable  intolerance  of  an  enlightened  cen- 
sorship with  the  popular  laxity  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 


The  Rejected  Statement  371 

The  judge  would  suppress  the  pioneers,  whilst  the  Ex- 
aminer of  Plays  issued  two  guinea  certificates  for  the 
vulgar  and  vicious  plays.  For  this  reason  the  plan 
would  no  doubt  be  popular ;  but  it  would  be  very  much 
as  a  relaxation  of  the  administration  of  the  Public 
Health  Acts  accompanied  by  the  cheapening  of  gin 
would  be  popular. 

The  Arbitration  Proposal 

On  the  occasion  of  a  recent  deputation  of  playwrights 
to  the  Prime  Minister  it  was  suggested  that  if  a  cen- 
sorship be  inevitable,  provision  should  be  made  for  an 
appeal  from  the  Lord  Chamberlain  in  cases  of  refusal  of 
licence.  The  authors  of  this  suggestion  propose  that  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  shall  choose  one  umpire  and  the  au- 
thor another.  The  two  umpires  shall  then  elect  a  ref- 
eree, whose  decision  shall  be  final. 

This  proposal  is  not  likely  to  be  entertained  by  con- 
stitutional lawyers.  It  is  a  naive  offer  to  accept  the 
method  of  arbitration  in  what  is  essentially  a  matter,  not 
between  one  private  individual  or  body  and  another,  but 
between  a  public  offender  and  the  State.  It  will  presum- 
ably be  ruled  out  as  a  proposal  to  refer  a  case  of  man- 
slaughter to  arbitration  would  be  ruled  out.  But  even 
if  it  were  constitutionally  sound,  it  bears  all  the  marks 
of  that  practical  inexperience  which  leads  men  to  believe 
that  arbitration  either  costs  nothing  or  is  at  least  cheaper 
than  law.  Who  is  to  pay  for  the  time  of  the  three  arbi- 
trators, presumably  men  of  high  professional  standing? 
The  author  may  not  be  able:  the  manager  may  not  be 
willing:  neither  of  them  should  be  called  upon  to  pay 
for  a  public  service  otherwise  than  by  their  contributions 
to  the  revenue.  Clearly  the  State  should  pay.  But  even 
so,  the  difficulties  are  only  beginning.  A  licence  is  sel- 
dom refused  except  on  grounds  which  are  controversial. 


372  The  She^^ing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

The  two  arbitrators  selected  by  the  opposed  parties  to 
the  controversy  are  to  agree  to  leave  the  decision  to  a 
third  party  unanimously  chosen  by  themselves.  That  is 
very  far  from  being  a  simple  solution.  An  attempt  to 
shorten  and  simplify  the  passing  of  the  Finance  Bill  by 
referring  it  to  an  arbitrator  cliosen  unanimously  by  Mr. 
Asquitli  and  Mr.  Balfour  miglit  not  improbably  cost 
more  and  last  longer  than  a  civil  war.  And  why  should 
the  chosen  referee — if  he  ever  succeeded  in  getting 
chosen — be  assumed  to  be  a  safer  authority  than  the 
Examiner  of  Plays?  He  would  certainly  be  a  less  re- 
sponsible one:  in  fact,  being  (however  eminent)  a  casual 
person  called  in  to  settle  a  single  case,  he  would  be  vir- 
tually irr(si)onsible.  Worse  still,  he  would  take  all  re- 
sponsibility away  from  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  who  is  at 
least  an  official  of  the  King's  Household  and  a  nominee 
of  tlie  Government.  The  Lord  Chamberlain,  with  all  his 
shortcomings,  thinks  twice  before  he  refuses  a  licence, 
knowing  that  his  refusal  is  final  and  may  promptly  be 
made  jiublie.  But  if  he  could  transfer  his  responsibility 
to  an  arbitrator,  he  would  naturally  do  so  whenever  he 
felt  the  slightest  misgiving,  or  whenever,  for  diplomatic 
reasons,  the  licence  would  come  more  gracefully  from  an 
authority  unconnected  with  the  court.  These  considera- 
tions, added  to  the  general  objection  to  the  principle  of 
censorship,  seem  sufficient  to  put  the  arbitration  expedi- 
ent quite  out  of  the  question. 


End  of  the  First  Part  of  The  Rejected  Statement. 


THE  REJECTED  STATEMENT 

Part    II 

THE   LICENSING   OF   THEATRES 

The  Distinction  between  Licensing  and 
Censorship 

It  must  not  be  concluded  that  the  uncompromising  aboli- 
tion of  all  censorship  involves  the  abandonment  of  all 
control  and  regulation  of  theatres.  Factories  are  regu- 
lated in  the  public  interest ;  but  there  is  no  censorship  of 
factories.  For  example,  many  persons  are  sincerely  con- 
vinced that  cotton  clothing  is  unhealthy;  that  alcoholic 
drinks  arc  demoralizing;  and  that  playing-cards  are  the 
devil's  picture-books.  But  though  the  factories  in  which 
cotton,  whiskey,  and  cards  are  manufactured  are  strin- 
gently regulated  under  the  factory  code  and  the  Public 
Health  and  Building  Acts,  the  inspectors  appointed  to 
carry  out  these  Acts  never  go  to  a  manufacturer  and  in- 
form him  that  unless  he  manufactures  woollens  instead 
of  cottons,  ginger-beer  instead  of  whiskey,  Bibles  instead, 
of  playing-cards,  he  will  be  forbidden  to  place  his  prod- 
ucts on  the  market.  In  the  case  of  premises  licensed 
for  the  sale  of  spirits  the  authorities  go  a  step  further. 
A  public-house  differs  from  a  factory  in  the  essential 
particular  that  whereas  disorder  in  a  factory  is  promptly 
and  voluntarily  suppressed,  because  every  moment  of  its 
duration  involves  a  measurable  pecuniary  loss  to  the  pro- 
prietor, disorder  in  a  public-house  may  be  a  source  of 
profit  to  the  proprietor  by  its  attraction  for  disorderly 
customers.  Consequently  a  publican  is  compelled  to  ob- 
tain a  licence  to  pursue  bis  trade;  and  this  licence  lasts 

373 


374  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

only  a  year,  and  need  not  be  renewed  if  his  liouse  has 
been  conducted  in  a  disorderly  manner  in  the  meantime. 

Prostitution  and  Drink  in  Theatres 

The  theatre  presents  the  same  problem  as  the  public- 
Louse  in  respect  to  disorder.  To  begin  with,  a  theatre  is 
actually  a  place  licensed  for  the  sale  of  spirits.  The 
bars  at  a  London  tlieatrc  can  be  kt  witliout  difficulty  for 
^30  a  week  and  upwards.  And  though  it  is  clear  that 
nobody  will  pay  from  a  shilling  to  half  a  guinea  for 
access  to  a  theatre  bar  when  he  can  obtain  access  to  an 
ordinary  public-house  for  nothing,  there  is  no  law  to 
j)rtvcnt  the  theatre  proprietor  from  issuing  free  passes 
broadcast  and  recoujiing  himself  by  tlic  profit  on  the 
sale  of  drink.  Besides,  there  may  be  some  other  attrac- 
tion than  the  sale  of  drink.  When  this  attraction  is  that 
of  the  play  no  objection  need  be  made.  But  it  happens 
that  the  auditorium  of  a  theatre,  with  its  brilliant  light- 
ing and  luxurious  decorations,  makes  a  very  effective 
shelter  and  background  for  the  display  of  fine  dresses 
and  pretty  faces.  Consequently  theatres  have  been  used 
for  centuries  in  England  as  markets  by  prostitutes. 
From  the  Restoration  to  the  days  of  Macready  all  the- 
atres were  made  use  of  in  this  way  as  a  matter  of  course; 
and  to  this,  far  more  than  to  any  prejudice  against 
dramatic  art,  we  owe  the  Puritan  formula  that  the  theatre 
door  is  the  gate  of  hell.  Macready  had  a  hard  struggle 
to  drive  the  prostitutes  from  his  theatre;  and  since  his 
time  tlie  London  theatres  controlled  by  the  Lord  Cham- 
berlain have  become  respectable  and  even  socially  pre- 
tentious. But  some  of  the  variety  theatres  still  derive  a 
revenue  by  selling  admissions  to  women  who  do  not  look 
at  the  performance,  and  men  who  go  to  purchase  or 
admire  the  women.  And  in  the  provinces  this  state  of 
things  is  by  no  means  confined  to  the  variety  theatres. 


The  Rejected  Statement  375 

The  real  attraction  is  sometimes  not  the  performance  at 
all.  The  theatre  is  not  really  a  theatre:  it  is  a  drink, 
shop  and  a  prostitution  market;  and  the  last  shred  of  its 
disguise  is  stripped  by  the  virtually  indiscriminate  issue 
of  free  tickets  to  the  men.  Access  to  the  stage  is  so 
easily  obtained;  and  the  plays  preferred  by  tlie  man- 
agement are  those  in  -which  the  stage  is  tilled  witli  young 
women  who  are  not  in  any  serious  technical  sense  of  the 
word  actresses  at  all.  Considering  that  all  this  is  now 
possible  at  any  theatre,  and  actually  occurs  at  some  the- 
atres, the  fact  that  our  best  theatres  are  as  respectable 
as  they  are  is  much  to  their  credit;  but  it  is  still  an 
intolerable  evil  that  respectable  managers  should  have  to 
fight  against  tlic  free  tickets  and  disorderly  housekeep- 
ing of  unscrupulous  competitors.  The  dramatic  author 
is  equally  injured.  He  finds  that  unless  he  writes  plays 
which  make  suitable  sideshows  for  drinking-bars  and 
brothels,  he  may  be  excluded  from  towns  where  there 
is  not  room  for  two  theatres,  and  where  the  one  exist- 
ing theatre  is  exploiting  drunkenness  and  prostitution 
instead  of  carrying  on  a  legitimate  dramatic  business. 
Indeed  everybody  connected  with  the  tlieatrical  profes- 
sion suffers  in  reputation  from  the  detestable  tradition  of 
such  places,  against  which  the  censorship  has  proved 
quite  useless. 

Here  we  have  a  strong  case  for  applying  either  the 
licensing  system  or  whatever  better  means  may  be  de- 
vized for  securing  the  orderly  conduct  of  houses  of 
public  entertainment,  dramatic  or  other.  Liberty  must, 
no  doubt,  be  respected  in  so  far  that  no  manager  should 
have  the  right  to  refuse  admission  to  decently  dressed, 
sober,  and  well-conducted  persons,  whether  they  are 
prostitutes,  soldiers  in  uniform,  gentlemen  not  in  evening 
dress,  Indians,  or  what  not;  but  when  disorder  is 
stopped,  disorderly  persons  will  either  cease  to  come  or 
else  reform  their  manners.     It  is,  however,  quite  argu- 


376  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

able  that  the  indiscriminate  issue  of  free  admissions, 
though  an  apparently  innocent  and  good-natured,  and 
certainly  a  highly  popular  proceeding,  should  expose  the 
proprietor  of  the  theatre  to  the  risk  of  a  refusal  to  renew 
his  licence. 

Why  the  Managers  dread  Local  Control 

All  this  points  to  the  transfer  of  the  control  of  the- 
atres from  the  Lord  Chamberlain  to  the  municipality. 
And  this  step  is  opposed  by  the  long-run  managers, 
partly  because  they  take  it  for  granted  that  municipal 
control  must  involve  municipal  censorship  of  plays,  so 
that  plays  might  be  licensed  in  one  town  and  prohibited 
in  the  next,  and  partly  because,  as  they  have  no  desire 
to  produce  plays  which  are  in  advance  of  public  opinion, 
and  as  the  Lord  Chamberlain  in  every  other  respect 
gives  more  scandal  by  his  laxity  than  trouble  by  his 
severity,  they  find  in  the  present  system  a  cheap  and 
easy  means  of  procuring  a  certificate  which  relieves  them 
of  all  social  responsibility,  and  provides  them  with  so 
strong  a  weapon  of  defence  in  case  of  a  prosecution  that 
it  acts  in  practice  as  a  bar  to  any  such  proceedings. 
Above  all,  they  know  that  the  Examiner  of  Plays  is  free 
from  the  pressure  of  that  large  body  of  English  public 
opinion  already  alluded  to.  which  regards  the  theatre  as 
the  Prohibitionist  Teetotaller  regards  the  public-house: 
that  is,  as  an  abomination  to  be  stamped  out  uncondi- 
tionally. The  managers  rightly  dread  this  pressure 
more  than  anything  else;  and  they  believe  that  it  is  so 
strong  in  local  governments  as  to  be  a  characteristic  bias 
of  municipal  authority.  In  this  they  are  no  doubt  mis- 
taken. There  is  not  a  municipal  authority  of  any  im- 
portance in  the  country  in  which  a  proposal  to  stamp 
out  the  theatre,  or  even  to  treat  it  illiberally,  would  have 
a  chance  of  adoption.     Municipal  control  of  the  variety 


The  Rejected  Statement  37T 

theatres  (formerly  called  inusic  halls)  has  been  very 
far  from  liberal,  except  in  the  one  particular  in  which 
the  Lord  Chamberlain  is  equally  illiberal.  That  par- 
ticular is  the  assumption  that  a  draped  figure  is  decent 
and  an  undraped  one  indecent.  It  is  useless  to  point  to 
actual  experience,  which  proves  abundantly  that  naked 
or  apparently  naked  figures,  whether  exhibited  as  living 
pictures,  animated  statuary,  or  in  a  dance,  are  at  tlieir 
best  not  only  innocent,  but  refining  in  their  effect,  where- 
as those  actresses  and  skirt  dancers  who  have  brought 
the  peculiar  aphrodisiac  effect  which  is  objected  to  to 
the  highest  pitch  of  efficiency  wear  twice  as  many  petti- 
coats as  an  ordinary  lady  docs,  and  seldom  exliibit  more 
than  their  ankles.  Unfortunately,  municipal  councillors 
persist  in  confusing  decency  with  drapery ;  and  both  in 
London  and  the  provinces  certain  positively  edifying 
performances  have  been  forbidden  or  withdrawn  under 
pressure,  and  replaced  by  coarse  and  vicious  ones. 
There  is  not  the  slightest  reason  to  suppose  that  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  would  have  been  any  more  tolerant ; 
but  this  does  not  alter  the  fact  that  the  municipal  licens- 
ing autliorities  have  actually  used  their  powers  to  set  up 
a  censorship  which  is  open  to  all  tlic  objections  to  cen- 
sorship in  general,  and  wliich,  in  addition,  sets  up  the 
objection  from  which  central  control  is  free:  namely,  the 
impossibility  of  planning  theatrical  tours  without  the 
serious  commercial  risk  of  having  the  performance  for- 
bidden in  some  of  the  to'svns  booked.  How  can  this  be 
prevented  ? 

Desirable  Limitations  of  Local  Control 

The  problem  is  not  a  difficult  one.  The  municipality 
can  be  limited  just  as  the  monarchy  is  limited.  The  Act 
transferring  theatres  to  local  control  can  be  a  charter 
of  the  liberties  of  the  stage  as  well  as  an  Act  to  reform 


378  The  She-vnng-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

administration.  The  power  to  refuse  to  grant  or  renew 
a  licence  to  a  theatre  need  not  be  an  arbitrary  one.  The 
municipality  may  be  required  to  state  the  ground  of  re- 
fusal ;  and  certain  grounds  can  be  expressly  declared 
as  vuilawful;  so  that  it  shall  be  possible  for  the  manager 
to  resort  to  the  courts  for  a  mandamus  to  compel  the 
authority  to  grant  a  licence.  It  can  be  declared  unlaw- 
ful for  a  licensing  authority  to  demand  from  the  man- 
ager any  disclosure  of  the  nature  of  any  entertainment 
he  proposes  to  give,  or  to  prevent  its  performance,  or  to 
refuse  to  renew  his  licence  on  the  ground  that  the  tend- 
ency of  his  entertainments  is  contrary  to  religion  and 
morals,  or  that  the  theatre  is  an  undesirable  institution, 
or  that  there  are  already  as  many  theatres  as  are  needed, 
or  that  the  theatre  draws  people  away  from  the  churches, 
chapels,  mission  halls,  and  the  like  in  its  neighborhood. 
The  assumption  should  be  that  every  citizen  has  a  right 
to  open  and  conduct  a  theatre,  and  therefore  has  a  right 
to  a  licence  unless  he  has  forfeited  tliat  right  by  allow- 
ing his  theatre  to  become  a  disorderly  house,  or  failing 
to  provide  a  building  which  complies  with  the  regula- 
tions concerning  sanitation  and  egress  in  ease  of  fire, 
or  being  convicted  of  an  offence  against  public  decency. 
Also,  the  licensing  powers  of  the  authority  should  not 
be  delegated  to  any  official  or  committee;  and  the  man- 
ager or  lessee  of  the  theatre  should  have  a  right  to  ap- 
pear in  person  or  by  counsel  to  plead  against  any  motion 
to  refuse  to  grant  or  renew  his  licence.  With  these  safe- 
guards the  licensing  power  could  not  be  stretched  to  cen- 
sorship. The  manager  would  enjoy  liberty  of  conscience 
as  far  as  the  local  authority  is  concerned;  but  on  the 
least  attempt  on  his  part  to  keep  a  disorderly  house 
under  cover  of  opening  a  theatre  he  would  risk  his 
licence. 

But  the  managers  will  not  and  should  not  be  satisfied 
with  these  limits  to  the  municipal  power.     If  they  are 


The  Rejected  Statement  379 

deprived  of  the  protection  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain's 
licence,  and  at  the  same  time  efficiently  protected  against 
every  attempt  at  censorship  by  the  licensing  authority, 
the  enemies  of  the  theatre  will  resort  to  the  ordinary 
law,  and  try  to  get  from  the  prejudices  of  a  jury  what 
they  are  debarred  from  getting  from  the  prejudices  of 
a  County  Council  or  City  Corporation.  Moral  Reform 
Societies,  "  Purity  "  Societies,  Vigilance  Societies,  exist 
in  England  and  America  for  the  purpose  of  enforcing 
the  existing  laws  against  obscenity,  blasphemy,  Sabbath- 
breaking,  the  debauchery  of  children,  prostitution  and  so 
forth.  The  paid  officials  of  these  societies,  in  their 
anxiety  to  produce  plenty  of  evidence  of  their  activity 
in  the  annual  reports  which  go  out  to  the  subscribers,  do 
not  always  discriminate  between  an  obscene  postcard  and 
an  artistic  one,  or  to  put  it  more  exactly,  between  a 
naked  figure  and  an  indecent  one.  They  often  combine 
a  narrow  but  terribly  sincere  sectarian  bigotry  with  a 
complete  ignorance  of  art  and  history.  Even  when  they 
have  some  culture,  their  livelihood  is  at  the  mercy  of 
subscribers  and  committee  men  who  have  none.  If  these 
officials  had  any  power  of  distinguishing  between  art  and 
blackguardism,  between  morality  and  virtue,  between  im- 
morality and  vice,  between  conscientious  heresy  and  mere 
baseness  of  mind  and  foulness  of  mouth,  they  might  be 
trusted  by  theatrical  managers  not  to  abuse  the  pow- 
ers of  the  common  informer.  As  it  is,  it  has  been  found 
necessary,  in  order  to  enable  good  music  to  be  performed 
on  Sunday,  to  take  away  these  powers  in  that  particular, 
and  vest  them  solely  in  the  Attorney-General.  This 
disqualification  of  the  common  informer  should  be  ex- 
tended to  the  initiation  of  all  proceedings  of  a  censorial 
character  against  theatres.  Few  people  are  aware  of  the 
monstrous  laws  against  blasphemy  which  still  disgrace 
our  statute  book.  If  any  serious  attempt  were  made  to 
carry  them  out,  prison  accommodation  would  have  to  be 


380   The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

provided  for  almost  every  educated  person  in  the  coun- 
try, beginning  with  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  Un- 
til some  government  with  courage  and  character  enough 
to  repeal  tluni  comes  into  power,  it  is  not  too  much  to 
ask  that  such  infamous  ])owers  of  opjjression  should  be 
kept  in  responsible  hands  and  not  left  at  the  disposal 
of  every  bigot  ignorant  enough  to  be  unaware  of  the 
social  dangers  of  persecution.  Besides,  the  common  in- 
former is  not  always  a  sincere  bigot,  who  believes  he  is 
performing  an  action  of  signal  merit  in  silencing  and 
ruining  a  iieretic.  He  is  unfortunately  just  as  often  a 
blackmailer,  who  has  studied  his  powers  as  a  conmion 
informer  in  order  that  he  may  extort  money  for  refrain- 
ing from  exercising  them.  If  the  manager  is  to  be  re- 
sponsible he  should  be  made  responsible  to  a  responsi- 
ble functionary.  To  be  responsible  to  every  fanatical 
ignoramus  who  chooses  to  prosecute  him  for  exhibiting  a 
cast  of  the  Hermes  of  Praxiteles  in  his  vestibule,  or  giv- 
ing a  jierformancc  of  Measure  for  Measure,  is  mere  slav- 
ery. It  is  made  bearable  at  present  by  the  protection 
of  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  certificate.  But  when  that  is 
no  longer  available,  the  common  informer  must  be  dis- 
armed if  the  manager  is  to  enjoy  security. 


SUMMARY 


The  general  ease  against  censorship  as  a  principle, 
and  the  jjarticular  case  against  the  existing  English  cen- 
sorship and  against  its  replacement  by  a  more  enlight- 
ened one,  is  now  complete.  The  following  is  a  recapitu- 
lation of  the  propositions  and  conclusions  contended  for. 

1.  The  question  of  censorshij)  or  no  censorship  is  a 
question  of  higli  political  principle  and  not  of  petty 
policy. 

2.  The  toleration  of  heresy  and  shocks  to  morality  on 
the  stage,  and  even  their  protection  against  the  preju- 
dices and  superstitions  which  necessarily  enter  largely 
into  morality  and  public  opinion,  are  essential  to  the 
welfare  of  the  nation. 

3.  The  existing  censorship  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain 
does  not  only  intentionally  sujipress  heresy  and  chal- 
lenges to  morality  in  their  serious  and  avowed  forms,  out 
unintentionally  gives  the  special  protection  of  its  official 
licence  to  the  most  extreme  impropriety  that  the  lowest 
section  of  London  playgoers  will  tolerate  in  theatres  es- 
pecially devoted  to  their  entertainment,  licensing  every- 
thing that  is  popular  and  forbidding  any  attempt  to 
change   public   opinion   or  morals. 

4.  The  Lord  Chamberlain's  censorship  is  open  to  the 
special  objection  that  its  application  to  political  plays  is 
taken  to  indicate  the  attitude  of  the  Crown  on  questions 
of  domestic  and  foreign  policy,  and  that  it  imposes  the 
limits  of  etiquet  on  the  historical  drama. 

5.  A  censorship  of  a  more  enlightened  and  independ- 

381 


382  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

ent  kind,  exercised  by  the  most  eminent  available  author- 
ities, would  prove  in  practice  more  disastrous  than  the 
censorsliip  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  because  the  more 
eminent  its  members  were  tlie  less  possible  it  would  be 
for  them  to  accept  the  responsibility  for  heresy  or  im- 
morality by  licensing  them,  and  because  the  many  heret- 
ical and  immoral  plays  which  now  ])ass  the  Lord  Cham- 
berlain because  he  does  not  understand  them,  would  be 
understood  and  suppressed  by  a  more  highly  enlightened 
censorship. 

6.  A  reconstructed  and  enlightened  censorship  would 
be  armed  with  summary  and  effective  powers  which 
would  stop  the  evasions  by  M'hich  heretical  and  immoral 
plays  are  now  performed  in  spite  of  tlie  Lord  Chamber- 
lain ;  and  such  ])owers  would  constitute  a  tyranny  which 
Mould  ruin  tlie  theatre  spiritually  by  driving  all  inde- 
})endent  thinkers  from  the  drama  into  the  uncensored 
forms  of  art. 

7.  The  work  of  critically  examining  all  stage  plays 
in  their  written  form,  and  of  witnessing  their  perform- 
ance in  order  to  see  that  the  sense  is  not  altered  by 
the  stage  business,  would,  even  if  it  were  divided 
among  so  many  officials  as  to  be  physically  possible, 
be  mentally  impossible  to  persons  of  taste  and  en- 
lightenment. 

8.  Regulation  of  theatres  is  an  entirely  different  mat- 
ter from  censorship,  inasmuch  as  a  theatre,  being  not 
only  a  stage,  but  a  place  licensed  for  the  sale  of  spirits, 
and  a  public  resort  capable  of  being  put  to  disorderly 
use,  and  needing  special  provision  for  the  safety  of  au- 
diences in  cases  of  fire,  etc.,  cannot  be  abandoned  wholly 
to  private  control,  and  may  therefore  reasonably  be  made 
subject  to  an  annual  licence  like  those  now  required  be- 
fore allowing  premises  to  be  used  publicly  for  music  and 
dancing. 

9.  In  order  to  prevent  the  powers  of  the  licensing  au- 


The  Rejected  Statement  383 

thoritj'  being  abused  so  as  to  constitute  a  virtual  cen- 
sorship, any  Act  transferring  the  theatres  to  the  control 
of  a  licensing  authority  should  be  made  also  a  charter 
of  the  rights  of  dramatic  authors  and  managers  by  the 
following  provisions : 

A.  The  public  prosecutor  (the  Attorney-General) 
alone  should  have  the  right  to  set  the  law  in  operation 
against  the  manager  of  a  theatre  or  the  author  of  a 
play  in  respect  of  tlie  character  of  the  play  or  enter- 
tainment. 

B.  No  disclosure  of  the  particulars  of  a  theatrical  en- 
tertainment shall  be  ri'tjuired  before  performance. 

C.  Licences  shall  not  be  withheld  on  the  ground  that 
the  existence  of  theatres  is  dangerous  to  religion  and 
morals,  or  on  the  ground  that  any  entertainment  given 
or  contemplated  is  heretical  or  immoral. 

D.  The  licensing  area  shall  be  no  less  than  that  of  a 
County  Council  or  City  Corporation^  which  shall  not  del- 
egate its  licensing  powers  to  any  minor  local  authority 
or  to  any  official  or  committee;  it  shall  decide  all  ques- 
tions attecting  the  existence  of  a  theatrical  licence  by 
vote  of  the  entire  body;  managers,  lessees,  and  proprie- 
tors of  theatres  shall  have  the  right  to  plead,  in  person 
or  by  counsel,  against  a  proposal  to  withhold  a  licence ; 
and  the  licence  shall  not  be  withheld  except  for  stated 
reasons,  the  validity  of  which  shall  be  subject  to  the 
judgment  of  the  high  courts. 

E.  The  annual  licence,  once  granted,  shall  not  be  can- 
celled or  suspended  unless  the  manager  has  been  con- 
victed by  public  prosecution  of  an  offence  against  the 
ordinary  laws  against  disorderly  housekeeping,  inde- 
cency, blasphemy^  etc.,  except  in  cases  where  some 
structural  or  sanitary  defect  in  the  building  necessitates 
immediate  action  for  the  protection  of  the  public  against 
physical  injury. 

F.  No   hcence   shall  be   refused   on   the   ground  that 


384  The  She\\'ing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

the  proximity  of  the  theatre  to  a  church,  mission  hall, 
school,  or  other  place  of  worship,  edification,  instruc- 
tion, or  entertainment  (including  another  theatre)  would 
draw  the  jjublic  away  from  such  places  into  its  own 
doors. 


PREFACE    RESUMED 


Mr.  George  ^Vlexander's  l^rotest 

On*  tlif  facts  mentioned  in  the  foregoing  statement,  and 
in  my  evidence  before  the  Joint  Select  Committee,  no 
controversy  arose  except  on  one  point.  Mr.  George 
Alexander  protested  vigorously  and  indignantly  against 
my  admission  that  theatres,  like  public-houses,  need  spe- 
cial control  on  the  ground  that  tliey  can  profit  by  dis- 
order, and  arc  sometimes  conducted  with  that  end  in 
view.  Now,  Mr.  Alexander  is  a  famous  actor-manager; 
nnd  it  is  very  difficult  to  persuade  the  jjublic  that  the 
more  famous  an  actor-manager  is  the  less  he  is  likely 
to  know  about  any  theatre  except  his  own.  When  the 
Committee  of  189~  reported,  I  was  considered  guilty  of 
a  perverse  paradox  when  I  said  that  the  witness  who 
knew  least  about  the  theatre  was  Henry  Irving.  Yet  a 
moment's  consideration  would  have  shown  that  the  para- 
dox was  a  platitude.  For  about  quarter  of  a  century 
Irving  was  confined  night  after  night  to  his  own  theatre 
and  his  own  dressing-room,  never  seeing  a  play  even 
there  because  he  was  himself  part  of  the  play ;  producing 
the  works  of  long-departed  authors;  and,  to  the  extent 
to  which  his  talent  was  extraordinary,  necessarily  mak- 
ing his  theatre  unlike  any  other  theatre.  When  he  went 
to  the  provinces  or  to  America,  the  theatres  to  which  he 
went  were  swept  and  garnished  for  him,  and  their  staffs 
replaced — as  far  as  he  came  in  contact  with  them — by 
his  own   lieutenants.     In  the  end^  there  was  hardly  a 

385 


386  The  She\ving-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

first-nighter  in  his  gallery  who  did  not  know  more  about 
the  London  theatres  and  the  progress  of  dramatic  art 
than  he;  and  as  to  the  provinces,  if  any  chief  constable 
had  told  him  the  real  history  and  character  of  many 
j)rovincial  theatres,  he  would  have  dcnomiced  that  chief 
constable  as  an  ignorant  libeller  of  a  noble  profession- 
But  the  constable  would  have  been  right  for  all  that. 
Now  if  this  was  true  of  Sir  Henry  Irving,  who  did  not 
become  a  London  manager  imtil  he  had  roughed  it  for 
years  in  the  provinces,  how  much  more  true  must  it  be 
of,  say,  Mr.  George  Alexander,  whose  successful  march 
through  his  profession  has  jiassed  as  far  from  the  pur- 
lieus of  our  theatrical  world  as  the  king's  naval  career 
from  the  Isle  of  Dogs?  The  moment  we  come  to  that 
necessary  part  of  the  censorship  question  which  deals 
with  the  control  of  theatres  from  the  point  of  \'iew  of 
those  who  know  how  much  money  can  be  made  out  of 
them  by  managers  who  seek  to  make  the  auditorium  at- 
tractive rather  than  the  stage,  you  find  the  managers 
divided  into  two  sections.  The  first  section  consists  of 
honorable  and  successful  managers  like  Mr.  Alexander, 
who  know  nothing  of  such  abuses,  and  deny,  with  per- 
fect sincerity  and  indignant  vehemence,  thai  they  exist 
except,  perhaps,  in  certain  notorious  variety  theatres. 
The  other  is  the  silent  section  which  knows  better,  but 
is  very  well  content  to  be  publicly  defended  and  pri- 
vately amused  by  Mr.  Alexander's  innocence.  To  accept 
a  West  End  manager  as  an  expert  in  theatres  because  he 
is  an  actor  is  much  as  if  we  were  to  accept  the  organist 
of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  as  an  expert  on  music  halls  be- 
cause he  is  a  musician.  The  real  experts  are  all  in  the 
conspiracy  to  keep  the  police  out  of  the  theatre.  And 
they  are  so  successful  that  even  the  police  do  not  know 
as  much  as  they  should. 

The  police  should  have  been   examined   by  the   Com- 
mittee, and  the  whole  question  of  the  extent  to  which 


Preface  387 

theatres  are  disorderly  houses  in  disguise  sifted  to  the 
bottom.  For  it  is  on  this  point  that  we  discover  behind 
the  phantoms  of  the  corrupt  dramatists  who  are  re- 
strained by  the  censorship  from  debnucliing  the  stage,  the 
reality  of  the  corrupt  managers  and  theatre  proprietors 
who  actually  do  debauch  it  without  let  or  hindrance  from 
the  censorship.  The  whole  case  for  giving  control  over 
theatres  to  local  authorities  rests  on  this  reality. 

Eliza  and  Her  Bath 

The  persistent  notion  that  a  theatre  is  an  Alsatia 
where  the  king's  writ  does  not  run,  and  where  any  wick- 
edness is  possible  in  the  absence  of  a  special  tribunal 
and  a  special  police,  wAs  brought  out  by  an  innocent  re- 
mark made  by  Sir  William  Gilbert,  who,  when  giving 
evidence  before  the  Committee,  was  asked  by  Colonel 
Lockwood  whether  a  law  sufficient  to  restrain  impropri- 
ety in  books  would  also  restrain  impropriety  in  plays. 
Sir  William  replied:  "  I  should  s.:y  there  is  a  very  wide 
distinction  between  what  is  read  and  what  is  seen.  In  a 
novel  one  may  read  that  '  Eliza  stripped  off  her  dress- 
ing-gown and  stepped  into  her  bath  '  without  any  harm ; 
but  I  think  if  that  were  presented  on  the  stage  it  would 
be  shocking."  All  the  stupid  and  inconsiderate  people 
seized  eagerly  on  this  illustration  as  if  it  were  a  suc- 
cessful attempt  to  prove  that  without  a  censorship  we 
should  be  unable  to  prevent  actresses  from  appearing 
naked  on  the  stage.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  if  an  actress 
could  be  persuaded  to  do  such  a  thing  (and  it  would  be 
about  as  easy  to  persuade  a  bishop's  wife  to  appear  in 
church  in  the  same  condition)  the  police  would  simply 
arrest  her  on  a  charge  of  indecent  exposure.  The  extent 
to  which  this  obvious  safeguard  was  overlooked  may  be 
taken  as  a  measure  of  the  thoughtlessness  and  frivolity 
of  the  excuses  made  for  the  censorship.     It  should  be 


388  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

added  tliat  the  artistic  representation  of  a  bath,  with 
every  suggestion  of  nakedness  that  the  law  as  to  decency 
allows,  is  one  of  the  most  familiar  subjects  of  scenic  art. 
From  the  Rhine  maidens  in  Wagner's  Trilogy,  and  the 
bathers  in  the  second  act  of  Les  Huguenots,  to  the  bal- 
lets of  water  nymphs  in  our  Christm.is  pantomimes  and 
at  our  variety  theatres,  the  sound  hygienic  propaganda 
of  the  bath,  and  the  charm  of  the  undrajx'd  human  fig- 
ure, are  exploited  without  otfence  on  the  stage  to  an 
extent  never  dreamt  of  by  any  novelist. 

A  King's  Proctor 

Another  hare  was  started  by  Professor  Gilbert  Mur- 
ray and  Mr.  Laurence  Housman,  who,  in  pure  kindness 
to  the  managers,  asked  whether  it  would  not  be  possible 
to  establish  for  their  assistance  a  sort  of  King's  Proctor 
to  whom  plays  might  be  referred  for  an  official  legal 
opinion  as  to  their  com])liancc  with  the  law  before  pro- 
duction. There  are  several  objections  to  this  proposal; 
and  they  may  as  well  be  stated  in  case  the  proposal 
should  be  revived.  In  the  first  place,  no  lawyer  with  the 
most  elementary  knowledge  of  the  law  of  libel  in  its  vari- 
ous applications  to  sedition,  obscenity,  and  blasphemy, 
could  answer  for  the  consequences  of  producing  an}'  play 
whatsoever  as  to  which  the  smallest  question  could  arise 
in  the  mind  of  any  sane  person.  I  have  been  a  critic 
and  an  author  in  active  service  for  thirty  years ;  and 
though  nothing  I  have  written  has  ever  been  prosecuted 
in  England  or  made  the  subject  of  legal  proceedings,  yet 
I  have  never  published  in  my  life  an  article,  a  play,  or 
a  book,  as  to  which,  if  I  had  taken  legal  advice,  an 
expert  could  have  assured  me  that  I  was  proof  against 
prosecution  or  against  an  action  for  damages  by  the  per- 
sons criticized.  No  doubt  a  sensible  solicitor  might  have 
advised  me  that  the  risk  was  no  greater  than  all  men 


Preface  389 

have  to  take  in  dangerous  trades;  but  such  an  opinion, 
though  it  may  encourage  a  client,  docs  not  protect  him. 
For  example,  if  a  publisher  asks  his  solicitor  whether 
he  may  venture  on  an  edition  of  Sterne's  Sentimental 
Journey,  or  a  manager  whether  he  may  produce  King 
Lear  without  risk  of  prosecution,  the  solicitor  will  ad- 
vise him  to  go  ahead.  But  if  the  solicitor  or  counsel 
consulted  by  him  were  asked  for  a  guarantee  that  neither 
of  these  works  was  a  libel,  he  would  have  to  reply  that 
he  could  give  no  such  guarantee;  that,  on  the  contrary, 
it  was  his  duty  to  warn  his  client  that  both  of  them  are 
obscene  libels ;  that  King  Lear,  containing  as  it  does 
perhaps  the  most  appalling  blasphemy  that  despair  ever 
uttered,  is  a  blasphemous  libel,  and  that  it  is  doubtful 
whether  it  could  not  be  construed  as  a  seditious  libel 
as  Avell.  As  to  Ibsen's  Brand  (the  Jilay  wliieh  made  him 
popular  with  the  most  earnestly  religious  people)  no 
sane  solicitor  would  advise  his  client  even  to  chance  it 
except  in  a  broadly  cultivated  and  tolerant  (or  indiffer- 
ent) modern  city.  The  lighter  plays  would  be  no  bet- 
ter off.  What  lawyer  could  accept  any  responsibility 
for  the  production  of  Sardou's  Divor^ons  or  Clyde 
Fitch's  The  Woman  in  the  Case  ?  Put  the  proposed 
King's  Proctor  in  operation  to-morrow;  and  what  will 
be  the  result?  The  managers  will  find  that  instead  of 
insuring  them  as  the  Lord  Chamberlain  does,  he  will 
warn  them  that  every  play  they  submit  to  him  is  vul- 
nerable to  the  law,  and  that  they  must  produce  it  not 
only  on  the  ordinary  risk  of  acting  on  their  own  respon- 
sibility, but  at  the  very  grave  additional  risk  of  doing 
so  in  the  teeth  of  an  official  warning.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances, what  manager  would  resort  a  second  time 
to  the  Proctor;  and  how  would  the  Proctor  live  without 
fees,  unless  indeed  the  Government  gave  him  a  salary 
for  doing  nothing?  The  institution  would  not  last  a 
year,  except  as  a  job  for  somebody. 


390  The  Shev.ing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 
Counsel's  Opinion 

The  proposal  is  still  less  plausible  when  it  is  consid- 
ered that  at  present,  without  any  new  legislation  at  all, 
any  manager  wlio  is  doubtful  about  a  play  can  obtain 
the  advice  of  his  solicitor,  or  Counsel's  opinion,  if  he 
thinks  it  will  be  of  any  service  to  him.  The  verdict  of 
tlie  ])rop().sed  King's  Proctor  would  be  nothing  but  Coun- 
sel's opinion  without  the  liberty  of  choice  of  coun- 
sel, possibly  cheapened,  but  sure  to  be  adverse;  for  an 
official  cannot  give  practical  advice  as  a  friend  and  a 
man  of  the  world:  he  muRt  stick  to  the  letter  of  the  law 
and  take  no  chances.  And  as  far  as  the  law  is  con- 
cerned, journalism,  literature,  and  the  drama  exist  only 
by  custom  or  sufferance. 

Wanted:  A  New  ]Magna  Cliarta 

This  leads  us  to  a  very  vital  question.  Is  it  not  pos- 
sible to  amend  tlie  law  so  as  to  make  it  possible  for  a 
lawyer  to  advise  his  client  that  he  may  publish  the 
works  of  Blake,  Zola,  and  Swinburne,  or  produce  the 
plays  of  Ibsen  and  Mr.  Granville  Barker,  or  print  an 
ordinary  criticism  in  his  newspa]:)er,  without  the  possi- 
bility of  finding  himself  in  prison,  or  mulcted  in  dam- 
ages and  costs  in  consequence  .^  Xo  doubt  it  is ;  but  only 
by  a  declaration  of  constitutional  right  to  blaspheme, 
rebel,  and  deal  with  tabooed  subjects.  Such  a  declara- 
tion is  not  just  now  within  the  scope  of  practical  politics, 
although  we  are  compelled  to  act  to  a  great  extent  as  if 
it  was  actually  part  of  the  constitution.  All  that  can 
be  done  is  to  take  my  advice  and  limit  the  necessary 
public  control  of  the  theatres  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
prevent  its  being  abused  as  a  censorship.  We  have  ready 
to  our  hand  the  machinery  of  licensing  as  applied  to 
public-houses.     A  licensed  victualler  can  now  be  assured 


Preface  391 

confidently  by  his  lawyer  that  a  magistrate  cannot  refuse 
to  renew  his  licence  on  the  ground  that  he  (the  magis- 
trate) is  a  teetotaller  and  has  seen  too  much  of  the  evil 
of  drink  to  sanction  its  sale.  The  magistrate  must  give 
a  judicial  reason  for  his  refusal,  meaning  really  a  con- 
stitutional reason;  and  his  tectotalism  is  not  such  a  rea- 
son. In  the  same  way  you  can  protect  a  theatrical  man- 
ager by  ruling  out  certain  reasons  as  unconstitutional,  as 
suggested  in  my  statement.  Combine  this  with  the  abo- 
lition of  the  common  informer's  power  to  initiate  pro- 
ceedings, and  you  will  have  gone  as  far  as  seems  pos- 
sible at  present.  You  will  have  local  control  of  the 
theatres  for  police  purposes  and  sanitary  purposes  with- 
out censorship;  and  I  do  not  see  what  more  is  possible 
until  we  get  a  formal  Magna  Charta  declaring  all  the 
categories  of  libel  and  the  blasphemy  laws  contrary  to 
public   liberty,   and   repealing  and   defining  accordingly. 

Proposed:  A  Xew  Star  Chamber 

Yet  we  cannot  mention  Magna  Charta  without  recall- 
ing how  useless  such  documents  are  to  a  nation  which 
has  no  more  political  comprehension  nor  political  virtue 
than  King  John.  When  Henry  YII.  calmly  proceeded 
to  tear  up  Magna  Charta  by  establishing  the  Star  Cham- 
ber (a  crimin.-il  court  consisting  of  a  committee  of  the 
Priv}'  Council  without  a  jury)  nobody  objected  until, 
about  a  century  and  a  half  later,  the  Star  Cham- 
ber began  cutting  off  the  ears  of  eminent  XVII.  cen- 
tury Nonconformists  and  standing  them  in  the  pillory; 
and  then  the  Nonconformists,  and  nobody  else,  abol- 
ished the  Star  Chamber.  And  if  anyone  doubts  that 
we  are  quite  ready  to  establish  the  Star  Chamber  again, 
let  liim  read  the  Report  of  the  Joint  Select  Com- 
mittee, on  which  I  now  venture  to  offer  a  few  criticisms. 

The  report  of  the  Committee^  which  will  be  found  in 


392  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

tlic  l)lucl)()ok.,  sliould  be  read  with  attciitiun  .iiul  respect 
as  far  as  page  x.,  up  to  which  point  it  is  an  able  and 
well-written  statement  of  the  case.  From  page  x.  on- 
ward, when  it  goes  on  from  diagnosing  the  disease  to 
prescribing  the  treatment,  it  should  be  read  with  even 
greater  attention  but  with  no  respect  whatever,  as  the 
main  object  of  tiie  treatment  is  to  conciliate  the  How 
Not  To  Do  It  majority.  It  contains,  however,  one  very 
notable  proposal,  the  same  being  nothing  more  or  less 
than  to  revive  the  Star  Chamber  for  {he  purpose  of 
dealing  with  heretical  or  seditious  plays  and  their  au- 
thors, and  indeed  with  all  charges  against  theatrical  en- 
tertainments except  common  police  cases  of  indecency. 
The  reason  given  is  that  for  which  the  Star  Chamber 
was  created  by  Henry  \'II:  that  is,  the  inadequacy  of 
the  ordinary  law.  "  We  consider,"  says  the  report, 
"  that  the  law  which  prevents  or  punishes  indecency, 
l)lasj)hemy  and  lib»l  in  printed  publications  [it  does  not, 
by  the  way.  except  in  the  crudest  police  cases]  would 
not  be  adecjuate  for  the  control  of  the  drama."  There- 
fore a  committee  of  the  Privy  Council  is  to  be  empow- 
ered to  supj)ress  plays  and  punish  managers  and  authors 
at  its  pleasure,  on  the  motion  of  the  Attorney-General, 
without  a  jury.  The  members  of  the  Committee  will, 
of  course,  be  men  of  high  standing  and  character:  other- 
wise they  would  nut  be  on  the  Privy  Council.  That  is 
to  say,  they  will  have  all  the  qualifications  of  Archbishop 
Laud. 

Now  I  have  no  guarantee  that  any  member  of  the  ma- 
jority of  the  Joint  Select  Committee  ever  heard  of  the 
Star  Chamber  or  of  Archbishop  Laud.  One  of  them  did 
not  know  that  politics  meant  anything  more  than  party 
electioneering.  Nothing  is  more  alarming  than  the  ig- 
norance of  our  public  men  of  the  cominonjilaces  of  our 
history,  and  tlieir  consequent  readiness  to  repeat  experi- 
ments which  have  in  the  past  produced  national  catas- 


Preface  393 

trophes.  At  all  events,  ■whether  they  knew  what  they 
■were  doing  or  not,  there  can  be  no  question  as  to  what 
they  did.  They  proposed  virtually  that  the  Act  of  the 
Long  Parliament  in  KiH  sliall  he  repealed,  aiid  the 
Star  Chamber  re-established,  in  order  that  playwriglits 
and  managers  may  be  punished  for  unspecified  offences 
unknown  to  the  law.  ^^'hen  I  say  unspecified,  I  should 
say  specified  as  follows  (see  page  xi.  of  the  report)  in 
the  case  of  a  play. 

(a)    To  be  indecent. 

(6)    To  contain   offensive   personalities. 

(r)  To  represent  on  the  stage  in  an  invidious  manner 
a  living  person,  or  any  person  recently  dead. 

{d)  To  do  violence  to  the  sentiment  of  religious  rev- 
erence. 

(e)    To  be  calculated  to  conduce  to  vice  or  crime. 

(/)  To  be  calculated  to  impair  friendly  relations  with 
any  foreign  power. 

(to)    '^o  be  calculated  to  cause  a  breach  of  the  peace. 

Now  it  is  clear  that  there  is  no  play  yet  written,  or 
possible  to  be  written,  in  tliis  world,  that  might  not  be 
condemned  under  one  or  other  of  these  heads.  How  any 
sane  man,  not  being  a  professed  enemy  of  public  liberty, 
could  put  his  hand  to  so  monstrous  a  catalogue  passes 
my  understanding.  Had  a  comparatively  definite  and 
innocent  clause  been  added  forbidding  the  affirmation  or 
denial  of  the  doctrine  of  Transubstantiation,  the  country 
would  have  been  up  in  arms  at  once.  Lord  Ribblesdale 
made  an  effort  to  reduce  the  seven  categories  to  the  old 
formula  "  not  to  be  fitting  for  the  preservation  of  good 
manners,  decorum,  or  the  public  peace  " ;  but  this  pro- 
posal was  not  carried ;  whilst  on  Lord  Gorell's  motion 
a  final  widening  of  the  net  was  achieved  by  adding  the 
phrase   "to  be  calculated  to";  so  that  even  if  a  play 


394  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

docs  not  producr  any  of  tlie  rt\sulLs  ft-nrcd,  tlie  author 
can  still  Ik-  puni.shrd  on  the  ground  that  his  })lay  is  "  cal- 
cidatcd  "  to  j)ro<Jucf  thcni.  I  have  no  lusitation  in  say- 
ing that  a  eoiiiniittfe  capahlo  of  such  an  outrageous  dis- 
play of  thoughtlessness  and  historical  ignorance  as  this 
paragraph  of  its  report  iuiplies  deserves  to  he  haled  be- 
fore the  trihunnl  it  has  itself  proposed,  and  dealt  with 
mider  a  general  clause  levelled  at  conduct  "  calculated 
to  "  overthrow   the  liberties   of   England. 

Possibilities  of  the  Proposal 

Still,  though  I  am  certainly  not  willing  to  give  Lord 
Gorell  the  chance  of  seeing  me  in  the  pillory  with  my 
cars  cut  off  if  I  can  help  it.  I  dare-say  many  authors 
would  rather  take  their  chance  with  a  Star  Chamber 
than  with  a  jury,  just  as  son)«-  soldiers  would  rather  take 
tlirir  chance  with  a  court-martial  than  at  (Quarter  Ses- 
sions, lor  111  it  matter,  some  of  thetn  would  rather  take 
tluir  chance  with  the  Lord  Chamberlain  than  with  either. 
And  though  this  is  no  rcnson  for  depriving  the  whole 
body  of  autliors  of  tho  benefit  of  >Lagna  Charta,  still, 
if  the  right  of  the  proprietor  of  a  piny  to  refuse  the 
good  offices  of  the  Privy  C  ouiicil  and  to  perform  the  Jil  ly 
un*il  I'.is  riccusers  Lul  indicted  him  at  law,  and  obtained 
th**  verdict  of  a  jury  against  him.  were  sufficiently 
rurjrded,  the  proposed  committee  might  be  set  up  and 
n.sed  for  certain  purposes.  For  instance,  it  might  he 
made  a  condition  of  the  intervention  of  the  Attorney- 
General  or  the  Director  of  Public  Prosecutions  that  he 
should  refer  an  accused  play  to  the  committee,  and  obt.iin 
their  sanction  before  taking  action,  offering  the  propri- 
etor of  the  J)lay,  if  the  Committee  thought  fit.  an  op- 
portunity of  voluntarily  accepting  trial  by  the  Committee 
as  an  alternative  to  prosecution  in  the  ordinary  coarse 
of  Law.      But  the   Committee  should  have  no  powers   of 


Preface  395 

punishment  beyond  tlic  power  (formidable  enough)  of 
suspending  performances  of  tlie  play.  If  it  thought  that 
additional  punishment  was  called  for,  it  et)uld  order  a 
prosecuti«)n  without  allowing  the  proprietor  or  author 
of  the  play  the  alternative  of  a  tri.U  by  itself.  The  au- 
thor of  the  play  sh(udd  be  made  a  party  to  all  proceed- 
ings of  the  Committee,  and  have  the  right  to  defend 
hiuiself  in  person  or  by  counsel.  This  would  })rovide  a 
check  on  the  Attorney-General  (wlio  might  be  as  bigoted 
as  any  of  the  municipal  aldermen  who  are  so  uuich 
dreaded  by  the  at-tor-managers)  without  enabling  the 
Conmiiltee  to  abuse  its  powers  for  party,  class,  or  sec- 
tarian ends  be\ond  that  irreducible  miniuunn  of  abuse 
which  a  popular  jury  would  endorse,  for  which  uiiniumm 
there  is  no  remedy. 

But  when  everything  is  said  for  the  Star  Chamber 
that  can  be  said,  and  every  precaution  taken  to  secure  to 
those  whom  it  pursues  the  alternative  of  trial  by  jury, 
the  expedient  still  remains  a  very  questionable  one,  to  be 
ejidurcd  f«)r  tlic  sake  of  its  protective  rather  than  its 
repressive  ])owcrs.  It  should  abolish  the  present  quaint 
toleration  of  rioting  in  theatres.  For  example,  if  it  is 
to  be  an  offence  to  perform  a  play  which  the  projiosed 
new  Committee  shall  condemn,  it  should  also  be  made  an 
otTence  to  disturb  a  performance  which  the  Committee 
has  not  condemned.  "  Br.iwling  "  at  a  theatre  should  be 
dealt  with  as  severely  as  brawling  in  church  if  the  cen- 
sorship is  to  be  taken  out  of  the  hands  of  the  public.  At 
))resent  Jenny  Geddes  may  throw  her  stool  at  the  head 
of  a  playwright  who  preaches  unpalatable  doctrine  to 
her,  or  rather,  since  her  stool  is  a  fixture,  she  may  liiss 
and  hoot  and  make  it  impossible  to  proceed  with  the 
performance,  even  although  nobody  has  compelled  her  to 
come  to  the  theatre  or  suspended  her  liberty  to  stay 
away,  and  although  she  has  no  claim  on  an  unendowed 
theatre  for  her  spiritual  necessities,  as  she  has  on  her 


'S\)(j  Tlic  Slicwing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

parish  ciiurch.  If  mob  fcnsorshi|)  cannot  be  trusted  to 
keep  nauglity  playwrights  in  order,  still  less  ean  it  be 
trusted  to  keep  the  j)ioneers  of  thought  in  countenanee; 
and  I  submit  that  anyone  hissing  a  play  permitted  by 
the  new  eensorship  should  be  guilty  of  contempt  of  eourt. 


Star  Cluiinber  Sentimentality 

But  what  is  most  to  be  dreaded  in  a  Star  CJjamber  is 
not  its  sternness  but  its  sentimentality^  There  is  no 
worse  censorship  than  one  which  considers  only  the  feel- 
ings of  the  spectators,  except  perhaps  one  which  consid- 
ers the  feelings  of  peoj)le  who  do  not  even  witness  the 
performance.  Take  the  case  of  the  Passion  Play  at 
Oberammergau.  The  offence  given  by  a  representation 
of  the  Crucifixion  on  the  stage  is  not  bounded  by  front- 
iers: further,  it  is  an  otTence  of  which  the  voluntary  spec- 
tators are  guilty  no  less  than  the  actors.  If  it  is  to  be 
tolerated  at  all:  if  we  are  not  to  make  war  on  the  Ger- 
man Empire  for  permitting  it,  nor  punish  the  English 
people  who  go  to  Bavaria  to  see  it  and  thereby  endow  it 
with  English  tnoney,  we  may  as  well  tolerate  it  in  Lon- 
don, where  nobody  need  go  to  see  it  except  those  who 
are  not  otTended  by  it.  When  Wagner's  Parsifal  be- 
comes available  for  representation  in  London,  many  peo- 
ple will  be  sincerely  horrified  when  the  miracle  of  the 
>Lass  is  simulated  on  the  stage  of  Covent  Garden,  and 
the  Holy  Ghost  descends  in  the  form  of  a  dove.  But 
if  the  Committee  of  the  Privy  Council,  or  the  Lord 
Chamberlain,  or  anyone  else,  were  to  attempt  to  keep 
Parsifal  from  us  to  spare  the  feelings  of  these  people, 
it  would  not  be  long  before  even  the  most  thoughtless 
champions  of  the  censorship  would  see  that  the  prin- 
ciple of  doing  nothing  that  could  shock  anybody  had 
reduced  itself  to  absurdity.  No  quarter  whatever  should 
be  given  to  the  bigotry  of  people  so  unlit  for  social  life 


Preface  397 

as  to  insist  not  only  that  their  own  prejudices  and  su- 
perstitions sliould  liave  the  fullest  toleration  but  that 
everybody  else  should  be  compelled  to  think  and  act  as 
they  do.  Every  service  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  is  an 
outrage  to  the  opinions  of  the  congregation  of  the  Ro- 
man Catholic  Cathedral  of  Westminster.  Every  Liberal 
meeting  is  a  defiance  and  a  challenge  to  the  most  cher- 
ished opinions  of  the  Unionists.  A  law  to  compel  the 
Roman  Catholics  to  attend  service  at  St,  Paul's,  or  the 
Liberals  to  attind  the  meetings  of  the  Primrose  League 
would  be  resented  as  an  insufferable  tyranny.  But  a  law 
to  shut  uj)  both  St.  Paul's  and  the  Westminster  C  athe- 
dral,  and  to  put  down  {)olitieal  meetings  and  associations 
because  of  the  offence  given  by  them  to  many  worthy  and 
excellent  people,  would  be  a  far  worse  tyranny,  because 
it  would  kill  the  religious  and  political  life  of  the  coun- 
try outright,  whereas  to  compel  jxople  to  attend  the 
services  and  meetings  of  their  opponents  would  greatly 
enlarge  their  minds,  and  would  actually  be  a  good  thing 
if  it  were  enforced  all  round.  I  should  not  object  to  a 
law  to  compel  everybody  to  read  two  newspapers,  each 
violently  opposed  to  the  other  in  politics;  but  to  forbid 
us  to  read  newspapers  at  all  would  be  to  maim  us  men- 
tally and  cashier  our  country  in  the  ranks  of  civilization. 
I  deny  that  anybody  has  the  right  to  demand  more  from 
me,  over  and  above  lawful  conduct  in  a  general  sense, 
than  liberty  to  stay  away  from  the  theatre  in  which  my 
plays  are  represented.  If  he  is  unfortunate  enough  to 
have  a  religion  so  petty  that  it  can  be  insulted  (any  man 
is  as  welcome  to  insult  my  religion,  if  he  can,  as  he  is 
to  insult  the  universe)  I  claim  the  right  to  insult  it  to 
my  heart's  content,  if  I  choose,  provided  I  do  not  compel 
him  to  come  and  hear  me.  If  I  think  this  country  ought 
to  make  war  on  any  other  country,  then,  so  long  as  war 
remains  lawful,  I  claim  full  liberty  to  write  and  perform 
a  play  inciting  the  country  to  that  war  without  interfer- 


398  The  SJiewLiig-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

ence  from  the  ambassadors  of  the  iiK-naCfJ  country.  I 
may  "  give  j)ain  to  many  worthy  people,  and  pleasure 
to  none,"  as  the  Censor's  pet  ]>hrju>e  put-s  it:  I  may  even 
make  f'urope  a  eoekpit  anil  Asia  a  shninhles:  no  matter: 
if  jirenclurs  and  politicians,  statesmen  and  soldiers,  may 
do  these  things — if  it  is  rifjht  that  such  thinj^s  should  be 
done,  then  I  claim  my  sliare  in  the  right  to  do  them.  If 
the  proposed  Committee  is  meant  to  prevent  me  from 
doinj;  these  tilings  whilst  men  of  other  professions  arv 
perniitteil  to  do  them,  then  I  jirotest  with  all  my  might 
against  the  formation  of  such  a  Committee.  If  it  is  to 
prot«'ct  me,  on  the  contrary,  against  the  attacks  that 
bigots  and  corrupt  pornographcrs  may  make  on  me  by 
appealing  to  the  ignorance  and  jirejudices  of  common 
jurors,  then  I  welcome  it;  but  is  that  really  the  object 
of  its  proposers?  And  if  it  is.  what  guarantee  have  I 
that  the  new  tribunal  will  not  presently  resolve  into  a 
mere  committee  to  avoid  unpleasantness  and  keep  the 
stage  "in  goiul  taste  ".^  It  is  no  more  possible  for  me 
to  do  my  work  honestly  as  a  pla\-Arright  without  giving 
pain  than  it  is  for  a  dentist.  The  nation's  morals  are 
like  its  teeth :  the  more  decayed  they  are  the  more  it 
hurts  to  touch  them.  Prevent  dentists  and  dramatists 
from  giving  pain,  and  not  only  will  our  uiorals  become 
as  carious  as  our  teeth,  but  toothache  and  the  plagues 
that  follow  neglected  morality  will  jiresently  cause  more 
agony  than  all  the  dentists  and  dramatists  at  their  worst 
liave  caused  since  the  world  began. 

An\i:liing  for  a  Quiet  Life 

Another  doubt :  would  a  Committee  of  the  Privy  Coun- 
cil really  face  the  risks  that  must  be  taken  by  all  com- 
munities as  the  price  of  our  freedom  to  evolve?  Would 
it  not  rather  take  the  popular  English  view  that  freedom 
and  virtue  generally  are  sweet  and  desirable  only  when 


Preface  399 

they  cost  nothing?  Notliing  worth  having  is  to  he  had 
without  risk.  A  mother  risks  her  child's  life  every  time 
she  lets  it  ramble  through  the  countryside,  or  cross  the 
street,  or  clamber  over  the  rocks  on  the  shore  by  itself. 
A  father  risks  his  son's  morals  when  he  gives  him  a 
latelikcy.  The  members  of  the  Joint  Select  Committee 
risked  my  producing  a  revolver  and  shooting  them  wlien 
they  admitted  me  to  the  room  without  having  me  h.nnd- 
cuflfed.  And  these  risks  are  no  unreal  ones.  Every  day 
some  child  is  maimed  or  drowned  and  some  young  man 
ijifccted  with  disease;  and  political  assassinations  have 
been  ap})allingly  frequent  of  late  years.  Railway  trav- 
elling has  its  risks;  motoring  has  its  risks;  aeroplaning 
has  its  risks ;  every  advance  we  make  costs  us  a  risk  of 
some  sort.  And  though  these  are  only  risks  to  the  indi- 
vidual, to  the  comunmity  they  are  certainties.  It  is  not 
certain  that  I  will  be  killed  this  year  in  a  railway  acci- 
dent; but  it  is  certain  that  somebody  will.  The  inven- 
tion of  ])rinting  and  the  freedom  of  the  press  have 
brought  upon  us,  not  merely  risks  of  their  abuse,  but 
the  establishment  as  part  of  our  social  routine  of  some 
of  the  worst  evils  a  community  can  suffer  from.  People 
who  realize  these  e%ils  shriek  for  the  suppression  of  mo- 
tor cars,  the  virtual  imprisonment  and  enslavement  of 
the  young,  the  passing  of  Press  Laws  (especially  in 
Egypt,  India,  and  Ireland),  exactly  as  they  shriek  for  a 
censorship  of  the  stage.  The  freedom  of  the  stage  will 
be  abused  just  as  certainly  as  the  complaisance  and  in- 
nocence of  the  censorship  is  abused  at  present.  It  will 
also  be  used  by  writers  like  myself  for  raising  very  diffi- 
cult and  disturbing  questions,  social,  political,  and  relig- 
ious, at  moments  which  may  be  extremely  inconvenient 
to  the  government.  Is  it  certain  that  a  Committee  of 
the  Privy  Council  would  stand  up  to  all  this  as  the  price 
of  lilx>rty?  I  doubt  it.  If  I  am  to  be  at  the  merer 
of   a  nice   amiable   Committee  of  elderly   gentlemen    (I 


400  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

kiiow  all  about  tldtrly  gcntkmeii,  being  one  myself) 
whose  motto  is  the  liiglily  popular  one,  "  Anj-thing  for  a 
quiet  life,"  and  who  will  make  the  inevitable  abuses  of 
freedom  by  our  blackguards  an  excuse  for  interfering 
with  any  distiuieting  use  of  it  by  myself,  then  I  shall 
be  worse  otT  than  I  am  witli  tlie  Lord  Chamberlain, 
whose  mind  is  not  broad  eiiougli  to  obstruct  the  whole 
range  of  thought.  If  it  were,  he  would  be  given  a  more 
difficult  post. 


Shall  the  Examiner  of  Plays  Starve? 

And  h(  re  I  may  be  reminded  that  if  I  prefer  the  Lord 
Chamberlain  I  can  go  to  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  who  is 
to  retain  all  his  })resent  functions  for  the  benefit  of 
those  who  prefer  to  be  judged  by  him.  But  I  am  not 
so  sure  that  the  Lord  Chamberlain  will  be  able  to  ex- 
ercise those  functions  f  r  long  if  resort  to  him  is  to  be 
optional.  Let  me  be  kinder  to  him  than  he  has  been 
to  me,  and  uncover  for  liim  the  pitfalls  which  the  Joint 
Select  Committee  have  dug  (and  concealed)  in  his  j)ath. 
Consider  liow  the  voluntary  system  nmst  inevitably  work. 
The  Joint  Select  Committee  expressly  urges  that  the 
Lord  Chamberlain's  licence  must  not  be  a  bar  to  a  prose- 
cution. Granted  that  in  spite  of  this  reservation  the 
licence  would  prove  in  future  as  powerful  a  defence  as 
it  lias  been  in  the  j)ast,  yet  the  voluntary  clause  never- 
theless places  the  manager  at  the  mercy  of  any  author 
who  makes  it  a  condition  of  his  contract  that  his  play 
shall  not  be  submitted  for  licence.  I  should  probably 
take  that  course  without  opposition  from  the  manager. 
For  the  manager,  knowing  that  three  of  my  plays  have 
been  refused  a  licence,  and  that  it  would  be  far  safer  to 
produce  a  piny  for  which  no  licence  had  been  asked  than 
one  for  which  it  had  been  asked  and  refused,  would 
agree  that  it  was  more  prudent,  in  my  case,  to  avail  him- 


Preface  401 

self  of  the  power  of  dispensing  with  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain's licence.  But  now  mark  the  consequences.  The 
manager,  having  thus  discovered  that  his  best  policy  was 
to  dis|)ense  with  the  licence  in  the  few  doubtful  cases, 
would  presently  ask  himself  why  he  should  sjiend  two 
guineas  each  on  licences  for  the  many  plays  as  to  which 
no  question  could  conceivably  arise.  What  risk  does  any 
manager  run  in  producing  such  works  as  Sweet  Laven- 
der, Peter  Pan,  The  Silver  King,  or  any  of  the  99  per 
cent  of  plays  that  are  equally  neutral  on  controversial 
questions.^  Does  anyone  seriously  believe  that  the  man- 
agers would  continue  to  pay  the  Lord  Chamberlain  two 
guineas  a  play  out  of  mere  love  and  loyalty,  only  to 
create  an  additional  risk  in  the  case  of  controversial 
plays,  and  to  guard  against  risks  that  do  not  exist  in 
the  case  of  the  great  bulk  of  other  productions.''  Only 
tliose  would  remain  faithful  to  him  who  produce  such 
plays  as  the  Select  Committee  began  by  discussing  in 
camera,  and  ended  by  refusing  to  discuss  at  all  because 
tliey  were  too  nasty.  These  people  M-ould  still  try  to  get 
a  licence,  and  would  still  no  doubt  succeed  as  they  do 
today.  But  could  the  King's  Reader  of  Plays  live  on 
his  fees  from  these  plays  alone ;  and  if  he  could  how  long 
would  his  post  survive  the  discredit  of  licensing  only 
pornographic  plays?  It  is  clear  to  me  that  the  Exam- 
iner would  be  starved  out  of  existence,  and  the  censor- 
ship perish  of  desuetude.  Perhaps  that  is  exactly  what 
the  Select  Committee  contemplated.  If  so,  I  have  noth- 
ing more  to  say,  except  that  I  think  sudden  death  would 
be  more  merciful. 

Lord  Gorell's  Awakening 

In  the  meantime,  conceive  the  situation  which  would 
arise  if  a  licensed  play  were  prosecuted.  To  make  it 
clearer,  let  us  imagine  any  other  offender — say  a  com- 


402  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

pany  j)roinottr  with  a  fraudulent  prospectus — pleading 
ill  Court  that  he  had  induced  tlie  Lord  Chamberlain  to 
issue  a  certificate  that  tlie  prospectus  contained  nothing 
objectionable,  and  that  on  the  strength  of  that  certificate 
he  issued  it ;  also,  that  by  law  the  Court  could  do  noth- 
ing to  him  except  order  him  to  wind  up  his  company. 
Some  sucli  vision  as  this  must  have  come  to  Lord  Gorell 
when  he  at  last  grappled  seriously  with  the  problem. 
Mr.  Harcourt  seized  the  opportunity  to  make  a  last 
rally.  He  seconded  Lord  Gorell's  proposal  that  the 
Committee  should  admit  that  its  scheme  of  an  optional 
censorship  was  an  elaborate  absurdity,  and  report  that 
all  censorship  before  production  was  out  of  the  question. 
But  it  was  too  late:  the  volte  face  was  too  sudden  and 
complete.  It  was  Lord  Gorell  whose  vote  had  turned 
the  close  division  which  took  place  on  the  question  of 
receiving  my  statement.  It  was  Lord  Gorell  without 
whose  countenance  and  authority  the  farce  of  the  books 
could  never  have  been  performed.  Yet  here  was  Lord 
Gorell,  after  assenting  to  all  the  provisions  for  the  op- 
tional censorship  paragraph  by  paragraph,  suddenly  in- 
forming his  colleagues  that  they  had  been  wrong  all 
through  and  that  I  had  been  right  all  through,  and  in- 
viting them  to  scrap  half  their  work  and  adopt  my  con- 
clusion. No  wonder  Lord  Gorell  got  only  one  vote: 
that  of  Mr.  Harcourt.  But  the  incident  is  not  the  less 
significant.  Lord  Gorell  carried  more  weight  than  any 
other  member  of  the  Committee  on  the  legal  and  con- 
stitutional aspect  of  the  question.  Had  he  begun  where 
he  left  off — had  he  at  the  outset  put  down  his  foot  on 
the  notion  that  an  optional  penal  law  could  ever  be  any- 
thing but  a  gross  contradiction  in  terms,  that  part  of 
the  Committee's  projxjsals  would  never  have  come  into 
existence. 


Preface  408 

Judges:  Their  Professional  Limitations 

I  do  not,  however,  appeal  to  Lord  Gorell's  judgment 
on  all  points.  It  is  inevitable  that  a  judge  should  be 
deeply  impressed  by  his  professional  experience  with  a 
sense  of  the  impotence  of  judges  and  laws  and  courts 
to  deal  satisfactorily  with  evils  which  are  so  Protean  and 
elusive  as  to  defy  definition,  and  which  yet  seem  to  pre- 
sent quite  simple  problems  to  the  common  sense  of  men 
of  the  world.  Vou  have  only  to  imagine  the  Privy 
Council  as  consisting  of  men  of  the  world  highly  en- 
dowed with  common  sense,  to  persuade  yourself  that 
tlie  supplementing  of  the  law  by  the  common  sense  of 
the  Privy  Council  would  settle  the  whole  difficulty.  But 
no  man  knows  what  he  means  by  common  sense,  though 
every  man  can  tell  you  that  it  is  very  micommon,  even  in 
Privy  Councils.  And  since  every  ploughman  is  a  man 
of  the  world,  it  is  evident  that  even  the  phrase  itself 
does  not  mean  what  it  says.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it 
means  in  ordinary  use  simply  a  man  who  will  not  make 
himself  disagreeable  for  the  sake  of  a  principle:  just  the 
sort  of  man  who  should  never  be  allowed  to  meddle  with 
political  rights.  Now  to  a  judge  a  political  right,  that 
is,  a  dogma  which  is  above  our  laws  and  conditions  our 
laws,  instead  of  being  subject  to  them,  is  anarchic  and 
abhorrent.  That  is  why  I  trust  Lord  Gorell  when  he  is 
defending  the  integrity  of  the  law  against  the  proposal 
to  make  it  in  any  sense  optional,  whilst  I  very  strongly 
mistrust  him,  as  I  mistrust  all  professional  judges,  when 
political  rights  are  in  danger. 

Conclusion 

I  must  conclude  by  recommending  the  Government  to 
take  my  advice  wherever  it  conflicts  with  that  of  the 
Joint  Select  Committee.     It  is,  I  think,  obviously  more 


404  The  Shewing-Ui)  of  Blanco  Posnet 

deeply  considered  and  better  informed,  tliougli  I  s.-iy  it 
tli/it  should  not.  At  nil  events,  I  iiavc  gixcii  my  rea- 
sons; and  at  Uiat  I  nmst  leavi-  it.  As  the  tradition  which 
makes  Malvolio  not  only  Master  of  tin-  Krvtls  hut  Mas- 
ter of  the  Mind  of  England,  and  which  has  eouje  down 
to  us  from  Henry  \'III.,  is  manifestly  doomed  to  the 
dustbin,  the  soon«-r  it  goes  there  the  better;  for  the  demo- 
cratic control  which  naturally  succeeds  it  e;ui  easily  be 
limited  so  as  to  prev«'nt  it  JH-coming  either  a  c«'nsorship 
or  a  tyranny.  The  Examiner  of  Plays  should  n-eeivc  a 
generous  pension,  and  Ih'  set  free  to  pwictise  privately 
as  an  expert  adviser  of  theatrical  managers.  There  is 
no  reason  why  they  should  be  deprived  of  the  counsel 
tlu-y  so  highly  value. 

It  only  remains  to  say  that  jiuhlic  performances  of 
The  Sh«wing-L'p  of  Hlanco  Posnet  /ire  still  j)rohil)ited 
in  (ireat  Britain  by  the  I.«)rd  C'hamlH-rlain.  An  attempt 
was  made  to  prevent  even  its  performance  in  Ireland  by 
some  indiscreet  Castle  officials  in  the  absence  of  the 
lAnd  Lieutenant.  This  attempt  gave  extraordinary  pub- 
licity to  the  production  of  the  play;  and  every  possible 
effort  was  made  to  persuade  the  Irish  pul)lic  that  the 
performance  would  Ix-  an  outrage  to  their  religion,  and 
to  provoke  a  rejK-tition  of  the  rioting  that  attended  tlic 
first  performances  of  Synge's  PlaylHiy  of  the  \Vt>stern 
World  before  the  most  sensitive  and,  on  provocation,  the 
most  turbulent  audience  in  the  kingdom.  The  directors 
of  the  Irish  National  Theatr<-,  Lady  Ciregory  and  Mr. 
AN'illiam  Butler  Veats,  rose  to  the  occasion  with  insjiirit- 
ing  courage.  I  am  a  conciliatory  person,  and  was  will- 
ing, as  I  always  am,  to  make  every  concession  in  return 
for  having  my  own  way.  But  Lady  Gregory  and  Mr. 
Yeats  not  only  would  not  yield  an  inch,  but  insisted, 
within  the  due  limits  of  gallant  warfare,  on  taking  the 
field  with  every  circumstance  of  defiance,  and  winning 
the  battle  with  every  trophy  of  victory.     Their  triumph 


Preface  405 

was  as  complete  as  they  could  have  desired.  The  pcr- 
forinancc  exhausted  the  ])o.ssil)ilitirs  of  sueeess,  and  jiro- 
voked  no  niurmnr,  tliouj^h  it  inspired  several  ap|)r()\  inj; 
sermons.  Later  on.  Lady  (ire<;ory  and  Mr.  Veats 
brouj^ht  the  pl'iv  to  London  and  j)erforn)ed  it  under  the 
Lord  Chamberlain's  nose,  througii  the  instrumentality  of 
the  Stage  StK-iety. 

After  this,  the  play  was  again  submitttd  to  tlic  Lord 
Chamberlain.  But.  though  beaten,  l)e,  too,  understands 
the  art  of  How  Not  To  Do  It.  He  licensed  the  play, 
but  endorsed  on  his  lieence  the  condition  that  all  the 
passages  which  implicated  Ciod  in  the  history  of  Blanco 
Posnet  must  be  omitted  in  representation.  All  the 
coarseness,  the  profligacy,  the  jirostitution,  the  violence, 
the  drinking-bar  humor  into  which  the  light  shines  in 
the  jday  are  licensed,  but  the  light  itself  is  extinguished. 
I  need  hardly  say  that  I  have  not  availed  mysi-lf  of  this 
lic«nce,  and  do  not  intend  to.  There  is  enough  licensed 
darkness  in  our  theatres  today  without  my  adding  to  it. 

A  TOT  St.  L.\  whence, 
lilh  July  1910. 


Postscript. — Since  the  above  was  written  the  Lord 
Chamberl.-iin  has  made  an  attempt  to  evade  his  respon- 
sibility and  perhaps  to  postpone  his  doom  by  appointing 
an  advisory  committee,  unknown  to  the  law,  on  which 
he  will  presumably  throw  any  odium  that  may  attach 
to  refusals  of  licences  in  the  future.  This  strange  and 
lawless  body  Mill  hardly  reassure  our  moralists,  who 
object  much  more  to  the  plays  he  licenses  than  to  those 
he  suppresses,  and  are  therefore  unmoved  by  his  jilea  that 
his  refusals  are  few  and  far  between.  It  consists  of  two 
eminent  actors  (one  retired),  an  Oxford  professor  of  lit- 
erature, and  two  eminent  barristers.  As  their  assembly 
is  neither  created  by  statute  nor  sanctioned  by  custom,  it 


406   The  Sheuing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

is  difficult  to  know  what  to  call  it  until  it  advises  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  to  deprive  some  author  of  his  means 
of  livelihood,  when  it  will,  I  presume,  become  a  con- 
spiracy, and  be  indictable  accordingly;  unless,  indeed,  it 
can  persuade  the  Courts  to  recognize  it  as  a  new  Estate 
of  the  Realm,  created  by  tlie  Lord  Chamberlain.  This 
constitutional  position  is  so  questionable  that  I  strongly 
advise  the  members  to  resign  promptly  before  the  Lord 
Chamberlain  gets  them  into  trouble. 


THE    SHEWING-UP    OF     BLANCO 
POSNET 

A  number  of  yvojnen  are  sitting  n-orking  together  in  a 
big  room  not  unlike  an  old  English  tithe  barn  in  its  tim- 
bered construction,  but  n'ith  windows  high  up  next  the 
roof.  It  is  furnished  as  a  courthouse,  rrith  the  floor 
raised  ne.it  the  walls,  and  on  this  raised  flooring  a  seat 
for  the  Sheriff,  a  rough  jury  box  on  his  right,  and  a  bar 
to  put  prisoners  to  on  his  left.  In  the  well  in  the  middle 
is  a  table  with  benches  round  it.  A  few  other  benches 
are  in  disorder  round  the  room.  The  autumn  sun  is 
shining  rvarmly  through  the  windows  and  the  open  door. 
The  women,  whose  dress  and  speech  are  those  of  pion- 
eers of  civilication  in  a  territory  of  the  United  States  of 
America,  are  seated  round  the  table  and  on  the  benches, 
shucking   nuts.      The   conversation   is   at    its   height. 

Babst  [a  bumptious  young  slattern,  with  some  good 
looks^  I  say  that  a  man  that  would  steal  a  horse  would 
do  anything. 

Lottie  [a  sentimental  girl,  neat  and  clean]  Well,  I 
never  should  look  at  it  in  that  way.  I  do  think  killing 
a  man  is  worse  any  day  than  stealing  a  horse. 

Hannah  [elderly  and  wise]  I  dont  say  it's  right  to 
kill  a  man.  In  a  place  like  this,  where  every  man  has 
to   have   a   revolver,   and   where  theres   so   much   to   try 

+07 


408  The  She\\ing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

people's  tempers,  tlie  uun  get  to  be  a  deal  too  free  with 
one  another  in  the  way  of  shooting,  (loci  knows  it's  hard 
enough  to  have  to  bring  a  boy  into  the  world  and  nurse 
him  up  to  be  a  man  only  to  have  him  brought  home  to 
you  on  a  shutter,  perhaps  for  nothing,  cr  only  just  to 
shew  that  the  man  that  killed  liim  wasnt  afraid  of  him. 
But  men  are  like  ehildren  when  they  get  a  gun  in  their 
hands:  tlieyrc  not  eonteiit  til  theyve  used  it  on  somebody. 

Jessik  [rt  goocl-naturvd  hut  sharp-tongucd,  Jioit i/-toity 
youn<^  tromau;  liahsy's  rival  iti  good  looks  and  Iicr  su- 
perior in  tidiness]  They  shoot  for  the  h)ve  of  it.  Look 
at  them  at  a  lynehing.  ThcjTC  not  content  to  hang  the 
man;  but  directly  the  poor  creature  is  swung  up  they 
all  shoot  him  full  of  holes,  wasting  their  cartridges  that 
cost  solid  mont'v,  and  jiretending  they  do  it  in  horror 
of  his  wickedness,  though  half  of  them  would  have  a 
rojjc  round  their  own  necks  if  all  they  did  was  known — 
let  alone  the  mess  it  makes. 

Lottie.  I  wish  we  could  get  more  civilized.  I  dont 
like  all  this  lynching  and  shooting.  I  dont  believe  any 
of  us  like  it,  if  the  truth  were  known. 

B.\nsY.  Our  Sheriff  is  a  real  strong  man.  You  want 
a  strong  man  for  a  rough  lot  like  our  ])eo])le  here.  He 
aint  afraid  to  shoot  and  he  auit  afraid  to  hang.  Lucky 
for  us  quiet  ones,  too. 

Jessie.  Oh,  dont  talk  to  me.  I  know  what  men  are. 
Of  course  he  aint  afraid  to  shoot  and  he  aint  afraid  to 
hang.  \Mieres  the  risk  in  that  with  the  law  on  his  side 
and  the  whole  crowd  at  his  back  longing  for  the  lynch- 
ing as  if  it  was  a  spree?  Would  one  of  them  own  to 
it  or  let  him  own  to  it  if  they  lynched  the  wrong  man? 
Not  them.  \Miat  they  call  justice  in  this  place  is  noth- 
ing but  a  breaking  out  of  the  devil  thats  in  all  of  us. 
What  I  want  to  see  is  a  Sheriff  that  aint  afraid  not  to 
shoot  and  not  to  hang. 

Emma  [a  sneak  who  sides  ivith  Bahsy  or  Jessie,  ac- 


The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  409 

cording  to  the  fortune  of  tvar]  Well,  I  must  say  it  does 
sicken  nie  to  see  Sheriff  Kemp  putting  down  his  foot,  as 
he  calls  it.  Why  dont  lie  ]nit  it  down  on  his  wife?  She 
wants  it  worse  than  half  the  men  he  lynches.  He  and 
his  Vigilance  Committee,  indeed! 

Babsy  [incensed]  Oh,  well!  if  people  are  going  to 
take  the  part  of  horse-thieves  against  the  Sheriff — ! 

Jessie.  Who's  taking  the  part  of  horse-thieves  against 
the  Sheriff.? 

Bahsv.  You  are.  Waitle  your  own  horse  is  stolen, 
and  youll  know  lutter.  I  had  an  uncle  that  died  of 
thirst  in  the  sage  brush  because  a  negro  stole  his  horse. 
But  they  caught  him  and  burned  him;  and  serve  him 
right,  too. 

Emma.  I  havf  known  tliat  a  child  was  born  crooked 
because  its  mother  had  to  do  a  horse's  work  that  was 
stolen. 

Babsy.  There!  You  hear  that?  I  say  stealing  a 
horse  is  ten  times  worse  than  killing  a  man.  And  if  the 
Vigilance  Committee  ever  gets  hold  of  you,  youd  better 
have  killed  twenty  men  than  as  much  as  stole  a  saddle 
or  bridle,  much  less  a  horse. 

Elder  Daniels  comes  in. 

Elder  Daxiels.  Sorry  to  disturb  you,  ladies;  but 
the  Vigilance  Committee  has  taken  a  prisoner;  and  they 
want  the  room  to  try  him  in. 

Jessie.  But  they  cant  try  him  til  Sheriff  Kemp  comes 
back  from  the  wharf. 

Elder  Daniels.  Yes;  but  we  have  to  keep  the  pris- 
oner here  til  he  comes. 

Babsy.  What  do  you  want  to  put  him  here  for? 
Cant  you  tie  him  up  in  the  Sheriff's  stable? 

Elder  Daniels.  He  has  a  soul  to  be  saved,  almost 
like  the  rest  of  us.  I  am  bound  to  try  to  put  some  re- 
ligion into  him  before  he  goes  into  his  Maker's  presence 
after  the  trial. 


410  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

Hannah.     What  has  lie  done,  Mr  Daniels? 

Elder  Daniels.     Stole  a  horse. 

Babsy.  And  are  we  to  be  turned  out  of  the  town  hall 
for  a  horse-thief.''  Aint  a  stable  good  enough  for  his 
religion.'' 

Elder  Daniels.  It  may  be  good  enough  for  his, 
Babsy ;  but,  by  your  leave,  it  is  not  good  enough  for 
inine.  While  I  am  Elder  here,  I  shall  umbly  endeavour 
to  keep  u])  the  dignity  of  Him  I  serve  to  the  best  of 
my  small  ability.  So  I  nmst  ask  you  toj^e  good  enough 
to  cle-ir  out.  Allow  me.  [He  talics  the  sack  of  husks 
and  put  it  out  of  the  rrai^  against  the  panels  of  the  jury 
box]. 

The  Women  \ murviuring]  Thats  always  the  way. 
.Just  as  we'd  settled  down  to  work.  What  harm  are  we 
doing.^  Well,  it  is  tiresome.  Let  them  finish  the  job 
themselves.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear  I  We  cant  have  a  minute 
to  ourselves.      Shoving  us   out   like  that ! 

Hannah.     ^Miose  horse  was  it,   Mr  Daniels.'' 

Elder  Daniels  [returning  to  move  the  other  sack]  I 
am  sorry  to  say  that  it  was  the  Sheriff's  horse — the  one 
he  loaned  to  young  Strapper.  Strapper  loaned  it  to  me; 
and  the  thief  stole  it,  thinking  it  was  mine.  If  it  had 
been  mine,  I'd  have  forgiven  him  cheerfully.  I'm  sure 
I  hoped  he  would  get  away ;  for  he  had  two  hours  start 
of  the  Vigilance  Committee.  But  they  caught  him.  [He 
disposes  of  the  other  sack  also]. 

Jessie.  It  cant  have  been  much  of  a  horse  if  they 
caught  him  with  two  hours  start. 

Elder  Daniels  [coming  back  to  the  centre  of  the 
group]  The  strange  thing  is  that  he  wasnt  on  the  horse 
when  they  took  him.  He  was  walking;  and  of  course  he 
denies  that  he  ever  had  the  horse.  The  Sheriff's  brother 
wanted  to  tie  him  up  and  lash  him  till  he  confessed  what 
he'd  done  with  it;  but  I  couldnt  allow  that:  it's  not  the 
law. 


The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  411 

Babsy.  Law!  What  right  has  a  horse-thief  to  any 
law?     Law  is  thrown  away  on  a  brute  like  that. 

Elder  Daniels.  Dont  say  that,  Babsy.  No  man 
should  be  made  to  confess  by  cruelty  until  religion  has 
been  tried  and  failed.  Please  God  I'll  get  the  where- 
abouts of  the  horse  from  him  if  youU  be  so  good  as  to 
clear  out  from  this.  [Disturbance  outside].  They  are 
bringing  him  in.     Now  ladies !  please,  please. 

They  rise  reluctantly.  Hannah,  Jessie,  and  Lottie  re- 
treat to  the  Sheriff's  bench,  shepherded  by  Daniels;  but 
the  other  women  crowd  forward  behind  Babsy  and  Emma 
to  see  the  prisoner. 

Blanco  Posnet  is  brought  in  by  Strapper  Kemp,  the 
Sheriff's  brother,  and  a  cross-eyed  man  called  Squinty. 
Others  follow.  Blanco  is  evidently  a  blackguard.  It 
would  be  necessary  to  clean  him  to  make  a  close  guess 
at  his  age;  but  he  is  under  forty,  and  an  upturned,  red 
moustache,  and  the  arrangement  of  his  hair  in  a  crest 
on  his  brow,  proclaim  the  dandy  in  spite  of  his  intense 
disrcputableness.  He  carries  his  head  high,  and  has  a 
fairly  resolute  mouth,  though  the  fire  of  incipient  de- 
lirium tremens  is  in  his  eye. 

His  arms  are  bound  with  a  rope  with  a  long  end, 
which  Squinty  holds.  They  release  him  when  he  en- 
ters; and  he  stretches  himself  and  lounges  across  the 
courthouse  in  front  of  the  women.  Strapper  and  the 
men  remain  between  him  and  the  door. 

Babsy  [spitting  at  him  as  he  passes  her]  Horse- 
thief  !  horse-thief ! 

Others.  You  will  hang  for  it;  do  you  hear.''  And 
serve  you  right.  Serve  you  right.  That  will  teach  you. 
I  wouidnt  wait  to  try  you.  Lynch  him  straight  off,  the 
varmint.     Yes,  yes.     Tell  the  boys.     Lynch  him. 

Blanco  [mocking]     "  Angels  ever  bright  and  fair — " 

Babsy.  You  call  me  an  angel,  and  I'll  smack  your 
dirty  face  for  you. 


412   The  Sliewing-l"p  of  Blanco  Posnet 

Blanco.      "  Take,  oli  inkv  me  to  your  cart'." 

Em.ma.  There  wont  be  any  angels  where  yoiire 
going  to. 

Others.  Aha!  Devils,  more  likely.  And  too  good 
company   for  a  horse-thief. 

All.  "  Horse-thief !      Hors.-thief!      Horse-thief! 

Blanco.  Do  women  niake  the  law  here,  or  men? 
Drivf'  tlirse  luifers  out, 

TiiK  W'oMKN.  Oh!  [Tliry  rush  at  him,  vituperating, 
gcreaming  passionately,  tearing  at  him.%  Lottie  puts  her 
fingers  in  her  ears  and  runs  out.  Hannah  follotrs,  shak- 
ing her  head.  Blanco  is  thrown  down].  Oil,  did  you 
he.'ir  what  he  called  us .^  Vou  foul-mouthed  brute!  You 
liar!  How  dare  you  jnit  such  a  name  to  a  decent 
woman?  Let  me  get  at  him.  Vou  coward!  Oh,  he 
struck  me:  did  you  see  that?  Lynch  him!  Pete,  will 
you  stand  by  and  hear  me  called  names  by  a  skunk  like 
that?  Burn  him:  burn  hir/ !  Thats  wh.it  Ld  do  with 
him.     Aye,  burn  him  ! 

The  Men  \j)ulling  the  women  away  from  Blanco,  and 
getting  them  out  partly  In/  violence  and  partly  by  coax- 
ing] Here!  come  out  of  this.  Let  him  alone.  Clear  the 
courthouse.  Come  on  now.  Out  with  you.  Now,  Sally: 
out  you  go.  Let  go  my  hair,  or  I'll  twist  your  arm  out. 
Ah,  would  you?  Now,  then:  get  along.  You  know  you 
must  go.  Whats  the  use  of  scratching  like  that?  Now, 
ladies,  ladies,  ladies.  How  would  you  like  it  if  you  were 
going  to   be   hanged? 

At  last  the  women  are  pushed  out,  leaving  Elder  Dan- 
iels, the  Sheriff's  brother  Strapper  Kemp,  and  a  few 
others  with  Blanco.  Strapper  is  a  lad  just  turning  into 
a   man:  strong,  selfish,  sulky,  and   determined. 

Blanco   [sitting  up  and  tidying  himself]  — 

Oh  woman,  in  our  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please — 


The  Sbewiiig-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  4-13 

Is  niv  face  scratclitd  ?  I  can  fed  tluir  daniiud  daws  all 
over  nie  still.  Am  I  bleeding?  [He  sits  on  the  nearest 
hench^. 

Elder  Daniels.  Nothing  to  hurt  Theyve  drawn  a 
drop  or  two   under  your  left  eye. 

Strapper.  Lueky  for  you  to  have  an  eye  left  in  your 
head. 

Blanco   [wiping  the  blood  oiJ\  — 

When  pain  and  anRuish  wring  the  brow, 
.•\  niinislorinii;  angel  tiiou. 

Go  out  to  tilt  Ml,  Str,i|)i)tr  Kemp;  and  till  them  about 
your  big  brotlier's  little  horse  that  souu-  wieked  man 
stt)le.     (io  and  ery  in  your  mammy's  laj). 

Stkai'I'KK  l/HrioMs]  Vou  jounee  me  any  more  about 
that  horse,  Blaneo  Posnet;  and  I'll — I'll— 

Blanco.  Youll  scratch  my  face,  wont  you?  Yah! 
Your  brother's  the  SheritT,  aint  he? 

Strapper.     Yes,  he  is.     He  hangs  horse-thieves. 

Blanco  [with  calm  conviction]  He's  a  rotten  Sher- 
iff. Oh,  a  rotten  Sheriff.  If  he  did  his  Hrst  duty  he'd 
hang  himself.  This  is  a  rotten  town.  Your  fathers 
came  here  on  a  false  alarm  of  gold-digging;  and  when 
the  gold  didnt  i)an  out,  they  lived  by  licking  their  young 
into  habits  of  honest  industry. 

Strapper.  If  I  hadnt  promised  Elder  Daniels  here 
to  give  him  a  chance  to  keep  you  out  of  Hell,  I'd  take 
the  job  of  twisting  your  neck  off  the  hands  of  the  Vig- 
ilance Committee. 

Blanco  [ti-ith  infinite  scorn]  You  and  your  rotten 
Elder,  and  your  rotten  Vigilance  Committee ! 

Strapper.  Theyre  sound  enough  to  hang  a  horse- 
thief,  anyhow. 

Blanco.  Any  fool  can  hang  the  wisest  man  in  the 
country.  Nothing  he  likes  better.  But  you  cant  hang 
me. 


414   The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

Sthapi-kh.      C"nnt  we? 

Blanio.  No,  you  cant.  I  left  tlie  town  this  morn- 
ing before  sunrise,  because  it's  a  rotten  town,  and  I 
couldnt  bear  to  see  it  in  the  light.  Your  brother's  horse 
did  the  s«ine,  as  any  sensible  horse  would.  Instead  of 
going  to  look  for  the  horse,  you  went  looking  for  uie. 
Th.it  w/is  a  rotten  thing  to  do,  because  the  horse  belonged 
to  your  brutlicr — or  to  the  man  he  stole  it  from — and  I 
dont  belong  to  him.  Well,  you  found  me;  but  you  didn't 
find  the  horse.  If  I  had  took  tlie  horse,  I'd  have  been 
on  the  horse.  Would  I  have  taken  all  that  time  to  get 
to  where   I   did   if   I'd  a  horse  to  carry  me? 

Stiiaim'kh.  I  (lont  l)elieve  you  started  not  for  two 
hours  aft«r  you  say  you  did. 

Hi.A.Mo.  \\'ho  cares  what  you  believe  or  dont  be- 
lieve.^ Is  a  man  worth  six  of  you  to  be  hanged  because 
youve  lost  your  big  brother's  horse,  and  youU  want  to 
kill  somelxxly  to  relieve  your  rotten  feelings  when  he 
licks  you  for  it.^  Not  likely.  Till  you  can  find  a  witness 
that  saw  me  with  that  horse  you  cant  touch  me;  and  you 
know  iL 

Stiiaimth.      Is  that  the  law.  Elder.' 

Ki.DKH  Daniklb.  The  Sheriff  knows  the  law.  I 
wouldnt  say  for  sure;  but  I  think  it  would  be  more 
seemly  to  have  a  witness.  Go  and  round  one  up.  Strap- 
per; and  leave  me  here  alone  to  wrestle  with  his  poor 
blinded  soul. 

Stfiatm'KB.  I'll  get  a  witness  all  right  enough.  I 
know  the  road  he  took;  and  I'll  ask  at  ever}'  house  with- 
in sight  of  it  for  a  mile  out.     Come  boys. 

Strapper  goes  out  rvith  the  others,  leaving  Blanco 
and  Elder  Daniels  together.  Blanco  rises  and  strolls 
over  to  the  Elder,  surveying  him  rvith  extreme  disparage- 
ment. 

Blanco.  Well,  brother?  Well,  Boozy  Posnet,  alias 
Elder  Daniels?     Well,  thief?     Well,  drunkard? 


The  She  wing-Up  of  Bhmco  Posnet  415 

Elder  Daniels.  It's  no  good,  Blanco.  TIr  yll  never 
believe  we're  brothers. 

Blanco.  Never  fear.  Do  you  suj)pt>se  I  want  to 
claim  you.''  Do  you  suppose  I'm  proud  of  you?  Youre 
a  rotten  brother,  Boozy  Posnet.  All  you  ever  did  when 
I  owned  you  was  to  borrow  money  from  me  to  get  drunk 
with.  Now  you  lend  money  and  sell  drink  to  other  i)eo- 
ple.  I  was  ashamed  of  you  before;  and  I'm  worse 
ashamed  of  you  now.  I  Mont  have  you  for  a  l)rother. 
Heaven  gave  you  to  me;  but  I  return  the  biessini;  witli- 
out  thanks.  So  be  easy:  I  shant  blab.  [He  turns  Itis 
back  on  him  and  sits  don'n'\. 

Eldek  Daniels.  I  tell  you  they  wouldnt  believe  you; 
so  what  does  it  matter  to  me  whether  you  blah  or 
not."*  Talk  sense,  Blanco:  theres  no  time  for  your  fool- 
ery now;  for  youll  be  a  dead  man  an  hour  after  the 
Sheriff  comes  back.  What  j)ossessed  you  to  steal  that 
horse  } 

Blanco.  I  didnt  steal  it.  I  distrained  on  it  for  what 
you  owed  me.  I  thought  it  was  yours.  I  was  a  fool  to 
think  that  you  owned  anything  but  other  jieople's  prop- 
erty. You  laid  your  hands  on  everything  father  and 
mother  had  when  they  died.  I  never  asked  you  for  a 
fair  share.  I  never  asked  you  for  all  the  money  I'd 
lent  you  from  time  to  time.  I  asked  you  for  mother's 
old  necklace  with  the  hair  locket  in  it.  You  wouldnt 
give  me  that :  you  wouldnt  give  me  anything.  So  as 
you  refused  me  my  due  I  took  it,  just  to  give  you 
a  lesson. 

Elder  Daniels.  Why  didnt  you  take  the  necklace  if 
you  must  steal  something.^  They  wouldnt  have  hanged 
you  for  that. 

Blanco.  Perhaps  I'd  rather  be  hanged  for  stealing 
a  horse  than  let  off  for  a  damned  piece  of  sentimentality. 

Elder  Daniels.  Oh,  Blanco.  Blanco:  spiritual  pride 
has  been  your  ruin.     If  youd  only  done  like  me,  youd 


416  The  She\ving-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

be  a  free  and  respectable  man  this  day  instead  of  laying 
there  with  a  rope  round  your  neck. 

Blanco  [turning  on  him]  Done  like  you!  What  do 
you  mean?  Drink  like  you,  eh?  Well,  Ive  done  some  of 
that  lately.     I  see  things. 

Elder  Daniels,  Too  late,  Blanco:  too  late.  [Con- 
vulsively] Oh,  why  didnt  you  drink  as  I  used  to?  Why 
didnt  you  drink  as  I  was  led  to  by  the  Lord  for  my 
good,  until  the  time  came  for  me  to  give  it  up?  It  was 
drink  that  saved  my  character  when  I  ^as  a  young  man ; 
and  it  was  the  want  of  it  that  spoiled  yours.  Tell  me 
this.     Did  I  ever  get  drunk  when  I  was  working? 

Blanco.  Xo;  but  then  you  never  worked  when  you 
had  money  enough  to  get  drunk. 

Elder  Daniels.  That  just  shews  the  wisdom  of 
Providence  and  the  Lord's  mercy.  God  fulfils  himself 
in  many  ways :  ways  we  little  think  of  when  we  try  to 
set  up  our  own  shortsighted  laws  against  his  Word. 
When  does  the  Devil  catch  hold  of  a  man?  Not  when 
he's  working  and  not  when  he's  drunk;  but  when  he's 
idle  and  sober.  Our  own  natures  tell  us  to  drink  when 
we  have  nothing  else  to  do.  Look  at  you  and  me !  When 
we'd  both  earned  a  pocketful  of  money,  what  did  we  do? 
Went  on  the  spree,  naturally.  But  I  was  humble  minded. 
I  did  as  the  rest  did.  I  gave  my  money  in  at  the  drink- 
shop  ;  and  I  said,  "  Fire  me  out  when  I  have  drunk  it 
all  up."     Did  you  ever  see  me  sober  while  it  lasted? 

Blanco.  Xo;  and  you  looked  so  disgusting  that  I 
wonder  it  didnt  set  me  against  drink  for  the  rest  of  my 
life. 

Elder  Daniels.  That  was  your  spiritual  pride, 
Blanco.  You  never  reflected  tliat  when  I  was  drunk  I 
was  in  a  state  of  innocence.  Temptations  and  bad  com- 
pany and  e\il  thoughts  pass^ed  by  me  like  the  summer 
wind  as  you  might  say:  I  was  too  drunk  to  notice  them. 
When  the  money  was  gone,  and  tbey  fired  me  out,   I 


The  She^\dng-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  417 

was  fired  out  like  gold  out  of  the  furnace,  with  my  char- 
acter unspoiled  and  unspotted;  and  when  I  went  back  to 
work,  the  work  kept  me  steady.  Can  you  say  as  much, 
Blanco?  Did  your  holidays  leave  your  character  un- 
spoiled? Oh,  no,  no.  It  was  tlieatres:  it  was  gambling: 
it  was  evil  company:  it  was  reading  in  vain  romances:  it 
was  women,  Blanco,  women :  it  was  wrong  thoughts  and 
gnawing  discontent.  It  ended  in  your  becoming  a  ram- 
bler and  a  gambler:  it  is  going  to  end  this  evening  on 
the  gallows  tree.  Oh,  what  a  lesson  against  spiritual 
pride!     Oh,  what  a —     [Blanco  throws  his  hat  at  him], 

Blanco.  Stow  it.  Boozy.  Sling  it  Cut  it.  Cheese 
it.     Shut  up.     "  Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand." 

Elder  Daniels.  Aye:  there  you  go,  with  your 
scraps  of  lustful  poetry.  But  you  cant  deny  what  I  tell 
you.  Why,  do  you  think  I  would  put  my  soul  in  peril 
by  selling  drink  if  I  thought  it  did  no  good,  as  them 
silly  temperance  reformers  make  out,  flying  in  the  face 
of  the  natural  tastes  implanted  in  us  all  for  a  good  pur- 
pose? Not  if  I  was  to  starve  for  it  to-morrow.  But  I 
know  better.  I  tell  you,  Blanco,  what  keeps  America  to- 
day the  purest  of  the  nations  is  tliat  when  she's  not 
working  she's  too  drunk  to  hear  the  voice  of  the 
tempter. 

Blanco.  Dont  deceive  yourself.  Boozy.  You  sell 
drink  because  you  make  a  bigger  profit  out  of  it  than 
you  can  by  selling  tea.  And  you  gave  up  drink  yourself 
because  when  you  got  that  fit  at  Edwardstown  the  doc- 
tor told  you  youd  die  tlie  next  time ;  and  that  frightened 
you  oflf  it 

Elder  Daniels  [fervevth/]  Oh  thank  God  selling 
drink  pays  me!  And  thank  God  be  sent  me  that  fit  as 
a  warning  that  my  drinking  time  was  past  and  gone,  and 
that  he  needed  me  for  another  9er\ice ! 

Blanco-  Take  care.  Boozy.  He  haant  fiiushed  with 
you  yet.     He  always  has  a  trick  up  His  sleeve — 


418  The  Shewin«r-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

Eluek  Daniels.  Oh,  is  that  tlic  w.iy  to  speak  of  the 
ruler  of  the  universe — the  great  and  almighty  God? 

Blaxco.  He's  a  sly  one.  He's  a  mean  one.  He  lies 
low  for  you.  He  plays  cat  and  mouse  with  you.  He  lets 
you  run  loose  until  you  think  youre  shut  of  him;  and 
then,  when  you  least  expeet  it,  he's  got  you. 

Elder  Daniels.  Speak  more  respectful.  Blanco — 
more  reverent. 

Blanco  [springing  up  and  coming  at  him]  Rever- 
ent I  ^^'ho  taught  you  your  reverent  (^ant  ?  Not  your 
Bil)le.  It  says  He  coineth  like  a  thief  in  the  night — 
aye,  like  a  tliief — a  horse-thief — 

Eluek   Da.niels   [shocketl]      Oh! 

Blanco  [overhearing  him]  .\nd  it's  true.  Thats 
how  He  caught  me  and  put  my  neck  into  the  halter.  To 
spite  me  because  I  had  no  use  for  Him — because  I  lived 
my  own  life  in  my  own  way.  and  would  have  no  truck 
•with  His  "  Dont  do  this."  and  "  You  niustnt  do  that," 
and  "  Voull  go  to  Hell  if  you  do  the  other."  I  gave 
Him  the  go-bye  and  did  without  Him  all  these  years. 
But  He  caught  me  out  at  last.  Tht  laugh  is  with  Hira 
as  far  as  hanging  nie  goes.  [lie  thrusts  his  hands  into 
his  pockets  and  lounges  moodily  an'ay  from  Daniels,  to 
the  table,  n^hcre  he  sits  facing  the  jury  box]. 

Elder  Daniels.  Dont  dare  to  put  your  theft  on 
Him,  man.  It  was  the  Devil  tempted  you  to  steal  the 
horse. 

Blanco.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Neither  God  nor  Devil 
tempted  me  to  take  the  horse:  I  took  it  on  my  own.  He 
had  a  cleverer  trick  than  that  ready  for  me.  [He  takes 
his  hands  out  of  his  pockets  and  clenches  his  fists]. 
Gosh  !  When  I  think  that  I  might  have  been  safe  and 
fifty  miles  away  by  now  with  that  horse;  and  here  I  am 
waiting  to  be  hung  up  and  filled  with  lead!  What  came 
to  me  ?  ^^'hat  made  me  such  a  fool  ?  Thats  what  I  want 
to  know.     Thats  the  great  secret. 


I 


The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  4-19 

Elder  Daniels  [at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table] 
Blanco:  the  great  secret  now  is,  what  did  you  do  with 
the  liorse? 

Blanco  [strikittg  the  table  with  his  fist]  May  my 
lips  be  blighted  like  my  soul  if  ever  I  tell  that  to  you  or 
.■my  mortal  men !  They  may  roast  me  alive  or  cut  me 
to  ribbons;  but  Strapper  Kemp  shall  never  have  the 
laugh  on  me  over  that  job.  Let  them  hang  me.  Let 
them  slioot.  So  long  as  they  are  shooting  a  man  and 
not  a  sniveling  skunk  and  softy,  I  can  stand  up  to  them 
and  take  all  they  can  give  me — game. 

Elder  Daniels.  Dont  be  headstrong,  Blanco.  Whats 
the  use.''  [Slyly]  They  might  let  up  on  you  if  you 
put  Strapper  in  the  way  of  getting  his  brother's  horse 
back. 

Blanco.  Not  they.  Hanging's  too  big  a  treat  for 
them  to  give  up  a  fair  chance.  Ive  done  it  myself.  Ive 
yelled  with  the  dirtiest  of  them  when  a  man  no  worse 
than  myself  was  swimg  up.  Ive  emptied  my  revolver 
into  him,  and  persuaded  myself  that  he  deserved  it  and 
that  I  was  doing  justice  with  strong  stern  men.  Well, 
my  turn's  come  now.  Let  the  men  I  yelled  at  and  shot 
at  look  up  out  of  Hell  and  see  the  boys  yelling  and 
shooting  at  me  as  /  swing  up. 

Elder  Daniels.  Well,  even  if  you  want  to  be 
hanged,  is  that  any  reason  why  Strapper  shouldnt  have 
his  horse.''  I  tell  you  I'm  responsible  to  him  for  it. 
[Bending  over  the  table  and  coaxing  him].  Act  like  a 
brother,  Blanco:  tell  me  what  you  done  with  it. 

Blanco  [shortly,  getting  up  and  leaving  the  table] 
Never  you  mind  what  I  done  with  it.  I  was  done  out 
of  it.     Let  that  be  enough  for  you. 

Elder  Daniels  [follonnng  him]  Then  why  dont  you 
put  us  on  to  the  man  that  done  you  out  of  it? 

Blanco.  Because  he'd  be  too  clever  for  you,  just  as 
he  was  too  clever  for  me. 


420  Tlie  She\N'ing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

Eldeb  Daniels.  Make  your  mind  easy  about  that, 
Blanct).  lit-  wont  ho  too  clt-vt-r  for  tlie  boys  and  Sheriff 
Keuip  if  you   j)ut   thoni   on   his  trail. 

Blanco.      Vt-s  he  will.      It  wasnt  a  man. 

Elder  Daniels.     Then  what  was  it.' 

Blanco    [pointing   uprrard]      Him. 

Eldeh  1)a.niel.>^.  Oh  whit  a  way  to  utter  His  holy 
name ! 

Blanco.  lU-  done  me  out  of  it  He  meant  to  pay 
o(T  old  scorts  by  brinj^ng  me  hen-.  He  means  to  win 
the  deal  and  you  cant  stop  Him.  Well,  He's  made  a 
fool  of  me;  but  He  cant  frighten  me.  I'm  not  going  to 
beg  off.  I'll  fight  off  if  I  get  a  chance.  I'll  lie  off  if 
they  cnnt  get  a  witness  against  me.  But  back  down  I 
never  will,  not  if  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  come  to  snivel 
at  me  in  white  surjilie<'s  and  offer  me  my  life  in  exchange 
for  an  umble  and  a  eontriU-  heart. 

Elder  Daniels.  Youre  not  in  your  right  mind, 
Blanco.  I'll  tell  em  youre  mad.  I  believe  tbeyll  let  you 
off  on  that      [lie  makes  for  the  door]. 

Blanco  [seizing  him,  rrith  horror  in  his  ct^es^  Dont 
go:  dont  leave  me  alone:  do  you  hear.' 

Elder  Daniels.  Has  your  ennsci»'nce  brought  you  to 
this,  that  youre  afraid  to  Ik-  left  alone  in  l)ro,id  daylight, 
like  a  child  in  tlie  dark? 

Blanco.  I'm  afraid  of  Him  and  His  tricks.  \Mien 
I  have  yon  to  raise  the  devil  in  me — when  I  have  p)eo- 
ple  to  shew  off  before  and  keep  me  game,  I'm  all  right; 
but  Ive  lost  my  nerve  for  being  alone  since  this  morn- 
ing. It's  when  youre  alone  tliat  He  takes  His  advan- 
tage. He  might  turn  my  head  again.  He  might  send 
people  to  me — not  real  people  perhaps.  [Shivering] 
By  God,  I  dont  believe  that  woman  and  the  child  were 
reaL  I  dont.  I  never  noticed  them  till  they  were  at  my 
elbow. 

Elder  Daniels.    \Miat  woman  and  what  child?   What 


i 


The  She\nng-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  421 

are  you  talking  about?  Have  you  been  drinking  too 
hard? 

Blanco.  Never  you  niind.  Youve  got  to  stay  with 
me:  thats  all;  or  else  send  someone  else — someone  rot- 
tencr  than  yourself  to  keep  the  devil  in  me.  Strapper 
Kemp  "will  do.  Or  a  few  of  thoee  scratching  deviU  of 
women. 

Strapper  Kemp   comes  back. 

Elder  Daniels  [<o  Strapper]  He's  gone  off  his 
head. 

Strapi'eh.  Foxing,  more  likely.  [Going  past  Dan- 
iels and  talkitii;  to  Blanco  nose  to  nose]  It's  no  good: 
we  hang  madmen  here;  and  a  good  job  too! 

Blanco.  I  feel  safe  with  you,  Strapper.  Youre  one 
of  the  rottenest. 

Sthaim'eu.  You  know  youre  done,  and  that  you  may 
as  well  be  hanged  for  a  sheep  jis  a  lamb.  So  talk  away. 
Ive  got  my  witness;  and  I'll  trouble  you  not  to  make  a 
move  towards  licr  when  she  comes  in  to  identify  you. 

Blanco  [rctreatinsr  in  terror]  A  woman?  She  aint 
real:   neither   is  the  child. 

Eloeu  Daniels.  He's  raving  about  a  woman  and  a 
child.     I  tell  you  he's  gone  off  liis  chump. 

Strapper  [calling  to  those  irithout]  Shew  the  lady 
in  there. 

Feemy  Evans  com^s  in.  She  is  a  young  rroman  of  2S 
or  S^,  rrith  impudent  manners,  battered  good  looks,  and 
dirty-fine   dress. 

Elder  Daniels.      Morning,  Feemy. 

Feemy.  Morning,  Elder.  [She  passes  on  and  slips 
her  arm  familiarly  through  Strapper^s]. 

Strapper.     Ever  see  him  before,  Feemy? 

Fekmv.  Thats  the  little  lot  that  was  on  your  horse 
this   morning.   Strapper.      Not  a  doubt   of  it. 

Blanco  [implacably  contemptuous]  Go  home  and 
wash  yourself,  you  slut. 


422  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

Feemy  [reddetiing,  and  disengagitig  her  arm  from 
Strapper's]  I'm  clran  enough  to  hang  you,  anyway. 
[Going  over  to  him  thrcateninglif].  Youre  no  true 
American  man,  to  insult  a  woman  like  that. 

Blanco.  A  woman  I  Oh  Lord !  You  saw  me  on  a 
horse,  did  you  ? 

Feemy.      Yes  I  did. 

Blanco,  (iot  uji  early  on  purpose  to  do  it,  didnt 
you  } 

Feemy.      No  I  didnt:  I  stayed  u})  late  on  a  spree. 

Blanco.     I  was  on  a  horse,  was  I? 

Feemy.  Yes  you  were;  and  if  you  deny  it  youre  a 
liar. 

Blanco  \to  Strapper]  She  saw  a  man  on  a  horse 
when  she  was  too  drunk  to  tell  wjiich  was  tiie  man  and 
whieh   was   tlie   horse — 

Feemy  [breaking  in]  You  lie.  I  wasnt  drunk — at 
least  not  as  drunk  as  that. 

Blanco  [ignoring  the  interruption] — and  you  found 
a  man  without  a  horse.  Is  a  man  on  a  horse  the  same 
as  a  man  on  foot }  Yah !  Take  your  witness  away. 
Who's  going  to  Ix-lieve  her.''  Shove  her  into  the  dustbin. 
Youve  got  to  find  that  horse  before  you  get  a  rojjc  round 
my  nt^ck.  [He  turns  awatf  from  her  contemptuously, 
and  sits  at  the  table  with  his  back  to  the  jury  box], 

Fee.my  [following  him]  I'll  hang  you,  you  dirty 
horse-thief;  or  not  a  man  in  this  camp  will  ever  get  a 
word  or  a  look  from  me  again.  Youre  just  trash:  thats 
what  you  are.     White  trash. 

Blanco.  And  what  are  you,  darling?  What  are  you.^ 
Youre  a  worse  danger  to  a  town  like  this  than  ten  horse- 
thieves. 

Feemy.  Mr  Kemp:  will  you  stand  by  and  hear  me 
insulted  in  that  low  way.''  [To  Blanco,  spitefully]  I'll 
see  you  swimg  up  and  I'll  see  you  cut  down:  I'll  see  you 
high  and  I'll  see  you  low,  as  dangerous  as  I  am.     [He 


The  She\ving-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  423 

laughs].  Oh  you  lutdnt  try  to  brazen  it  out.  Youll 
look  white  enough  before  the  boys  are  done  with  you. 

Bl.anco.  You  do  me  good.  Feemy.  Stay  by  me  to 
the  end,  wont  you?  Hold  my  hand  to  the  last;  and  I'll 
die  game.  [He  puts  out  his  hand:  she  strikes  savagely 
at  it;  but  he  tvitlulraws  it  in  time  and  laughs  at  her  dis- 
comfiture], 

Feemv.     You — 

Elder  Daniels.  Never  mind  him,  Feemy:  he's  not 
right  in  his  head  to-day.  [She  receives  the  assurance 
with  contemptuous  credulity,  and  sits  down  on  the  step 
of  the  Sheriff's  dais]. 

Sheriff  Kemp  cojnes  in:  a  stout  man,  with  large  flat 
ears,  and  a   neck  thicker  than   his  head. 

Elder    Daniels.      Morning,   Sherilf. 

The  Sheriff,  ^ilorning,  Elder.  [Passing  on].  Morn- 
ing, Strapper.  [Passing  on].  Morning,  Miss  Evans. 
[Stopping  between  Strapper  and  Blanco].  Is  this  the 
prisoner  r 

Blanco    [rising]      Thats   so.      Morning,   Sheriff. 

The  Sheriff.  Morning.  You  know,  I  suppose,  that 
if  youve  stole  a  horse  and  the  jury  rind  against  you,  you 
wont  have  any  time  to  settle  your  affairs.  Consequently, 
if  you  feel  guilty,  youd  better  settle  em  now. 

Blanco.     Affairs  be   damned !      Ive  got  none. 

The  Sheriff.  \\'ell,  are  you  in  a  proper  state  of 
mind?     Has  the  Elder  talked  to  you? 

Blanco.  He  has.  And  I  say  it's  against  the  law. 
It's  torture:  thats  what  it  is. 

Elder  Daniels.  He's  not  accountable.  He's  out  of 
his  mind.  Sheriff.  He's  not  fit  to  go  into  the  presence 
of  his  Maker. 

The  Sheriff.  Y'ou  are  a  merciful  man.  Elder;  but 
you  wont  take  the  boys  with  you  there.  [To  Blaiico]. 
If  it  comes  to  hanging  you,  youd  better  for  your  own 
sake  be  hanged  in  a  proper  state  of  mind  than  in  an 


424  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

improper  one.  But  it  wont  make  any  difference  to  us: 
make  no  mistake  about  that, 

Blanco.  Lord  keep  me  wicked  till  I  die !  Now  Ive 
said  my  little  prayer.  I'm  ready.  Not  that  I'm  guilty, 
mind  you;  but  this  is  a  rotten  town,  dead  certain  to  do 
the  wTong  thing. 

The  Siikhiff.  You  wont  be  asked  to  live  long  in  it, 
I  gufss.  [To  Strapper]  Got  the  witness  all  right, 
Strni)per.' 

STU-vrPER.      Yes,  got  evcr}*thing.  * 

Blanco.     Except  the  horse. 

The  Sheriff.     Whats  that.''    Aint  you  got  the  horse? 

Stuaim'eh.  No.  He  traded  it  iR-fore  we  overtook 
him,  I  guess.     But  Feemy  saw  liim  on  it. 

I'eemy.      She  did. 

Sth.mm'er.      Shall  I  call  in  the  boys? 

Blanco.  Just  a  moment,  Sheriff.  A  good  appe»ir- 
ance  is  everything  in  a  low-class  place  like  this.  [He 
takes  out  a  pocket  comb  and  mirror,  and  retires  towards 
the  dais  to  arrange  his  hair]. 

Elder  Daniels.  Oh,  think  of  your  immortal  soul, 
man,  not  of  your  ftwlish  face. 

Blanco.  I  cant  change  my  soul.  Elder:  it  changes 
me — sometimes.  Feemy:  I'm  too  pale.  Let  me  rub  my 
cheek  against  yours,  darling. 

Feemy.  You  lie:  my  color's  my  own,  such  as  it  is. 
And  a  pretty  color  youll  be  when  youre  hung  white  and 
shot  red. 

Blanco.     Aint  she  spiteful.  Sheriff? 

The  Sheriff.  Time's  wasted  on  you.  [To  Strap- 
per] Go  and  see  if  the  boys  are  ready.  Some  of  them 
were  short  of  cartridges,  and  went  down  to  the  store  to 
buy  them.  They  may  as  well  have  their  fun ;  and  itll 
be  shorter  for  him. 

Strapper.  Young  Jack  has  brought  a  boxful  up. 
Thevre  all  ready. 


The  Shev\ing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  425 

The  Sheriff  [going  to  the  dais  and  addressing 
Blanco]  Your  place  is  at  the  bar  there.  Take  it. 
[Blanco  bows  ironically  and  goes  to  the  bar].  Miss 
Evans:  youd  best  sit  at  the  table.  [She  does  so,  at  the 
corner  nearest  the  bar.  The  Elder  takes  the  opposite 
corner.  The  Sheriff  takes  his  chair].  All  ready,  Strap- 
jxjr. 

Strapper  [at  the  doar]     All  in  to  begin. 

The  crowd  comes  in  and  fills  the  court.  Babsy,  Jessie, 
and  Emma  come  to  the  Sheriff's  right;  Hannah  and  Lot- 
tie to  his  left. 

The  Sheriff.  Silence  there.  The  jury  will  take 
their  places  as  usual.      [They  do  so]. 

Blanco.      I  challenge  this  jury.  Sheriff. 

The  FoitEMAX.     Do  you,  by  Gosh.'' 

The  Sheriff.     On  what  ground.' 

Blanco.  On  the  general  ground  that  it's  a  rotten 
jury.      [Laughter]. 

The  Sherlff.  Thats  not  a  lawful  ground  of  chal- 
lenge. 

The  Foreman.  It's  a  lawful  ground  for  me  to  shoot 
yonder  skunk  at  sight,  first  time  I  meet  him,  if  he  sur- 
vives this  trial. 

Blanco.  I  challenge  tlie  Foreman  because  he's  preju- 
diced. 

The  Foreman.  I  say  you  lie.  We  mean  to  hang 
you,  Blanco  Posnet;  but  you  will  be  hanged  fair. 

The  Jury.      Hear,  hear  I 

Strapper  [to  the  Sheriff]  George:  this  is  rot.  How 
can  you  get  an  imprcjudiced  jury  if  the  prisoner  starts 
by  telling  them  theyre  all  rotten?  If  theres  any  preju- 
dice against  him  he  has  himself  to  thank  for  it. 

The  Boys.  Thats  so.  Of  course  he  has.  Insulting 
the  court!     Challenge  be  jiggered!     Gag  hira. 

Nestor  [a  juryman  with  a  long  white  beard,  drunk, 
the  oldest  man  present]      Besides,  Sheriff,  I  go  so  far 


426  The  She\\4ng-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

as  to  say  that  the  man  that  is  not  prejudiced  against  a 
horse-thief  is  not  fit  to  sit  on  a  jury  in  this  town. 

The  Boys.  Right.  Bully  for  you,  Nestor!  Thats 
the  straight  truth.     Of  course  he  aint.     Hear,  hear! 

The  Sheriff.  That  is  no  doubt  true,  old  man. 
Still,  you  must  get  as  unprejudiced  as  you  can.  The 
critter  has  a  right  to  his  chance,  such  as  he  is.  So  now 
go  right  ahead.  If  tlie  prisoner  dont  like  this  jury,  he 
should  have  stole  a  horse  in  another  town;  for  this  is 
all  the  jury  he'll  get  here.  , 

The  Foreman.     Thats  so,  Blanco  Posnet. 

The  Sheriff  [fo  Blanco]  Dont  you  be  uneasy.  You 
will  get  justice  here.  It  may  be  rough  justice;  but  it  is 
justice. 

Blanco.     What  is  justice? 

The  Sheriff.  Hanging  horse-thieves  is  justice;  so 
now  you  know.  Now  then :  weve  wasted  enough  time. 
Hustle  Avith  your  witness  there,  will  you? 

Blanco  \indignantly  bringing  down  his  fist  on  the 
bar]  Swear  the  jury.  A  rotten  Slieriif  you  are  not  to 
know  that  the  jury's  got  to  be  sworn. 

The  Foreman  [galled]  Be  swore  for  you !  Not 
likely.      What  do  you  say,  old  son? 

Nestor  [deliberatehf  and  solemnly]     I  say :  Guilty  !! ! 

The  Boys  [ttnnultiiously  rushing  at  Blanco]  Thats 
it.  Guilty,  guilty.  Take  him  out  and  hang  him.  He's 
found  guilty.  Fetch  a  rope.  Up  with  him.  [They  are 
about  to  drag  him  from  the  bar]. 

The  Sheriff  [rising,  pistol  in  hand]  Hands  off  that 
man.  Hands  off  him,  I  say,  Squinty,  or  I  drop  you,  and 
would  if  you  were  my  own  son.  [Dead  silence].  I'm 
Sheriff  here;  and  it's  for  me  to  say  when  he  may  law- 
fully be  hanged.      [They  release  him]. 

Blanco.  As  the  actor  says  in  the  play,  "  a  Daniel 
come  to  judgment."     Rotten  actor  he  was,  too. 

The  Sheriff.     Elder  Daniel  is  come  to  judgment  aU 


The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  427 

right,  m}'  lad.  Elder:  the  floor  is  3'ours.  [The  Elder 
rises].  Give  your  evidence.  The  truth  and  the  whole 
truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  so  help  you  God. 

Elder  Daniels.  Sheriff:  let  rae  off  this.  I  didnt 
ought  to  swear  away  this  man's  life.  He  and  I  are,  in 
a  manner  of  speaking,  brothers. 

The  Sheriff.  It  does  you  credit.  Elder:  every  man 
here  will  acknowledge  it.  But  religion  is  one  thing:  law 
is  another.  In  religion  we're  all  brothers.  In  law  we 
cut  our  brother  off  when  he  steals  horses. 

The  Foreman.  Besides,  you  neednt  hang  him,  you 
know.  Theres  plenty  of  willing  hands  to  take  that  job 
off  your  conscience.     So  rip  ahead,  old  son. 

Strapper.  Youre  accountable  to  me  for  the  horse 
until  you  clear  yourself,   Elder:   remember  that. 

Blanco.     Out  with  it,  you  fool. 

Elder  Daniels.  You  might  own  up,  Blanco,  as  far 
as  my  evidence  goes.  Everybody  knows  I  borrowed  one 
of  the  Sheriff's  horses  from  Strapper  because  my  own's 
gone  lame.  Everybody  knows  you  arrived  in  the  town 
yesterday  and  put  up  in  my  house.  Everybody  knows 
that  in  the  morning  the  horse  was  gone  and  you  were 
gone. 

Blanco  [in  a  forensic  manner]  Sheriff:  the  Elder, 
though  kno-svn  to  you  and  to  all  here  as  no  brother  of 
mine  and  the  rottenest  liar  in  this  town,  is  speaking  the 
truth  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  as  far  as  what  he  says 
about  me  is  concerned.  As  to  the  horse,  I  say  nothing; 
except  that  it  was  the  rottenest  horse  you  ever  tried  to 
sell. 

The  Sheriff.  How  do  you  know  it  was  a  rotten 
horse  if  you  didnt  steal  it? 

Blanco.  I  dont  know  of  my  own  knowledge.  I 
only  argue  that  if  the  horse  had  been  worth  its  keep,  you 
wouldnt  have  lent  it  to  Strapper,  and  Strapper  wouldnt 
have  lent  it  to  this  eloquent  and  venerable  ram.      [Sup- 


12S   Tlic  Slifwing-l'})  of  Blanco  Posnet 

pretied  lauiihtrr\.  And  now  I  ask  him  this.  \Tn  the 
Elder]  Did  mc  or  did  wr  not  haw  ft  qunrrt-l  Inst  evening 
about  a  crrt«in  nrtich-  that  was  left  by  luy  inotlirr,  and 
that  I  considiTrd  I  had  a  riffht  to  mort"  than  you?  And 
did  you  say  one  word  U)  ni«-  alx)ut  the  Iiorsr  not  belong- 
ing to  you  ? 

Hi.t)EH  I)ami:i.s.  Why  .should  I  }  Wr,  nrv«r  .said  a 
word  alMJut  thr  hors<-  at  all.  How  wa.s  I  t^i  kiutw  what 
it  wa.s  in  ytiur  mint!  to  do.' 

Bl.\nc'u.  Bear  witne.ss  all  that  I  ha4  a  right  to  take 
a  horse  from  him  without  .stealing  to  make  uj)  for  what 
lie  denied  n)e.  I  am  no  tliief.  But  you  havnt  proved 
yet  that  I  took  the  hors<*.  Strappi-r  Kemp:  hml  I  the 
hoHie  when  you  took  me,  or  hail    I    not.* 

Sth.vim'er.  No.  nor  you  hadiit  a  railway  train  neither. 
But  Feemy  Evans  saw  you  pass  on  the  horse  at  four 
oVKn-k  twenty-five  miles  from  the  «|>ot  where  I  ttwk 
you  at  seven  on  the  ro«id  to  Pony  Harbor.  Did  you 
walk  twenty-five  miles  in  tlinx*  hours?  That  so, 
Feemy.  eh  ? 

Fkkmv.  Thats  so.  .\t  four  I  saw  him.  [To  Blanco] 
Th;it.s  done  for  yon. 

The  Sherifp.      You  say  you  saw  him  on  my  horse? 

Feemy.     I  did. 

Bl.\nco.  And  I  ate  it,  I  suppose,  before  Strapper 
fetched  up  with  me.  [Suddcnlv  and  dramalicaUy] 
Sheriff:  I  accuse  Feemy  of  immoral  relations  with 
Straj)per. 

Feemy.     Oh  you  liar  ! 

Bl.vxco.  I  .iccust^'  tlie  fair  Euphcmia  of  imnwral  re- 
lations with  every  man  in  tliis  tow^l,  including  yourself. 
Sheriff.  I  say  this  is  a  conspiracy  to  kill  me  lx;twccn 
Fccniy  and  Strap{>cr  because  I  wouldnt  touch  Feemy 
with  a  pair  of  tongs.  I  say  you  darent  hang  any  white 
mau  on  the  wonl  of  a  woman  of  bad  character.  I  stand 
on  the  honor  and  virtue  of  mv  American  manhood.      I 


Tlic  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  429 

say  thnt  she's  not  had  the  oath,  and  tliat  you  darcnt  for 
tlie  honor  of  the  town  give  her  the  oatli  because  her  lips 
wouhl  blaspheme  the  holy  Bible  if  they  tt)uehed  it.  I 
say  thats  the  law;  and  if  you  are  a  proper  L  nited  Stfites 
SlierilT  ;ind  not  a  low-down  lyncher,  y«)ull  hold  up  the 
law  and  not  let  it  be  dra^^ged  in  the  mud  by  your  broth- 
er's kept  woman. 

Great  fjcitcmfut  among  the  rromen.  The  mm  much 
puzzled. 

Je8sie.  Thats  riglit.  She  didnt  ought  to  be  let  kiss 
the    Book, 

E.MMA.      How  could  the  like  of  her  tell  the  truth? 

Hausv.  It  would  be  an  insult  to  every  respectable 
woman  here  to  believe  her. 

Fki:my.  It's  easy  to  be  respectable  with  nobody  ever 
oflFering  you  a  chance  to  be  an_\'thing  else. 

The  Women  [clamoring  all  together]  Shut  up,  you 
hussy.  Youre  a  disgrace.  How  dare  you  open  your  lips 
to  answer  your  betters?  Hold  your  tongue  and  learn 
your  place,  miss.  You  painted  clut!  Whip  her  out  of 
tile  town  I 

The  Shehiff.  Silenct\  Do  you  hear?  Silence. 
[The  clamor  ceases].  Did  anyone  else  see  the  prisoner 
with  the  horse? 

Feemy   [passionately]     Aint  I  good  enough? 

Bausv.      No.     Youre  dirt:  tliats  what  you  are. 

Feemy.     And  you — 

The  Shehiff.  Silencv.  This  trial  is  a  man's  job; 
and  if  tltc  women  forget  their  sex  they  can  go  out  or 
be  put  out.  Strapper  and  Miss  Evans:  you  cant  have  it 
two  ways.  You  can  run  straight,  or  you  can  run  gay,  so 
to  speak ;  but  you  cant  run  both  ways  together.  There  is 
also  a  strong  feeling  among  the  men  of  this  town  that  a 
line  should  be  drawn  between  those  tliat  are  straight 
wives  and  mnUiers  and  those  that  are,  in  the  words  of 
the  Book  of  Books,  taking  the  primrose  path.     W'e  dont 


■UU)   Tlie  Shc'wiiig-T'p  of  l^laru-o  Posiut 

wish  to  Ik"  Imrd  on  nny  womnn ;  mid  most  of  us  hnvc  a 
prrsonal  rttfnrd  for  Miss  Kvnns  for  th«'  nnkv  of  old 
tiiiu-s;  hilt  linrrs  no  ^rttin^  out  of  tlu-  fnrt  tlmt  s\\v  Una 
privntc  rrosons  f«»r  wishing  to  oblif^r  StrapjM'r.  and  that 
— if  »lir  will  rxcus*-  u>y  snyinj?  »o — slir  is  not  what  I 
mi^ht  cnll  niornlly  |mrticulnr  n»  to  what  sh*-  do<*»  to 
ohli^r  him.  Thmforr  I  ask  th«-  prist)nfr  not  to  drive  us 
to  ^ivc  MiHS  Kvnns  the-  onth.  I  nsk  him  to  tt-11  us  fair 
and  Nfjuarr,  ns  a  man  wh(»  has  hut  a  frw  minutes  Ix-twcon 
Iiim  and  rtrrnity,  what  h«-  don«-  with  my  horsr. 

Tin:  HoYn.  H«ar.  h«ar  I  Thats  ri^jftt.  Thats  fnir. 
That  dors  it.      Now    Hlnnco.      Own   up. 

Ht..\N<o.  Shrriff:  you  touch  mc  home.  This  is  a 
rotten  worhl ;  hut  there  is  still  on<*  tiling  in  it  that  re- 
mains sarred  even  to  tlie  rottcnest  of  us,  and  that  is  a 
horse. 

Tick  Hoys,     (ioml.    Well  snid,  IJlnneo.    Thats  straight. 

lii.AMo.  Yt)U  have  n  ri^ht  to  your  horse.  Sheriff; 
and  if  I  could  put  you  in  the  way  of  getting  it  hack,  I 
wimld.  But  if  I  had  that  horse  I  shouldnt  he  here.  As 
I  ho|)e  to  Ik"  saved.  Sheriff — or  rather  as  I  ho|)«  to 
he  damned ;  for  I  have  no  taste  for  pious  company  and 
no  talent  for  playinjf  the  harp — I  know  no  more  of  that 
horse's   wlH-realnnits   than   you   do  yourself. 

Sthati'KH.      Who  did  you  trade  him  to? 

Hi..\Nco.  I  <lid  not  trade  him.  I  gt)t  nothing  for  him 
or  by  him.  I  stand  here  with  a  rope  round  my  neck 
for  the  want  of  him.  Wlien  you  t«xik  me.  did  I  fight 
like  a  thief  or  run  like  a  thief;  and  was  there  any  sign 
of  a  horse  on  me  or  near  me.* 

Sthm'per.  You  were  looking  at  a  rainbow  like  a 
danmed  silly  fool  instead  of  keeping  your  wits  al>out 
you ;  and  we  stole  up  on  you  and  had  you  tight  before 
you  could  draw  a  l>ead  on  us. 

The  Shemiff.  That  dont  sound  like  good  sense. 
What  would  he  look  at  a  rainbow   for? 


The  Shewing- L'p  of  lilaiu-o   PosiR-t  4.'n 

Blanc  o.  Ill  tt  11  vou.  Sheriff.  I  was  lookinff  at  it 
Ix-cnu.sf  tlirrc  was  something  written  on  it. 

SiiEiiiKK.      How  do  you  nicnn  written  on  it? 

IJi.A.Mo.  Tlu-  words  were,  "  Ive  got  the  eiiuh  on  you 
this  time,  Hlaneo  I'osnet."  Yes.  Sheriff,  I  saw  those 
words  in  ^re«n  on  the  red  streak  of  the  rainbow;  and  as 
I  saw  them  I  felt  Strapper's  grab  on  my  arm  and  S(jnin- 
tys  on   my   pist«»l. 

TiiK  I'oHKMA.N.  He's  shnmmin  mad:  thats  what  he 
is.  Aint  it  alK)ut  time  to  give  a  verdiet  and  have  a  hit 
of    fun.    Sheriff? 

TiiK  liovs.  Yes,  lets  hnve  a  verdiet.  We're  w.'isting 
tin-  whole  .aft«rn«K)n.     Cut  it  short. 

The  Siikhikk  [making  up  his  mind]  Swear  Feemy 
Kvans,  Klder.  She  dont  need  to  toueh  the  Book.  Let 
her  say  the  words. 

Fekmy.  Worse  people  than  me  lias  kissed  that  Book. 
What  wrong  Ive  done,  most  of  you  went  shares  in.  Ive 
to  live,  h.avnt  I  ?  same  as  the  rest  of  you.  However,  it 
makes  no  odds  to  me.  I  guess  the  truth  is  the  truth  and 
a  lie  is  a  lie,  t)n  the  Book  or  off  it. 

Babsv.  Do  as  youre  told.  Who  are  you,  to  be  let 
talk  alHJut  it?  ' 

The  Sheimff.  Silenee  there,  I  tell  vou.  Sail  ahead. 
Elder. 

Klueh  Daniels.  Feemy  Evans:  do  you  swear  to  tell 
the  truth  and  the  whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth, 
so  help  you  Ciod  ? 

Feemv.      I  do,  so  help  me — 

Sheriff.  Thats  enough.  Now,  on  your  oath,  did 
you  see  the  prisoner  on  my  horse  this  morning  on  the 
road  to  Pony  Harbor? 

Feemy.  On  my  oath — [DUturbauce  and  crotrding  at 
the  door]. 

At  The  Door.  Now  then,  now  then  I  ^\  here  are 
you    shovin    to?      Whats    up?      Order   in    court.      Chuck 


^IV2  Tlie  Sliewiii^-l  p  of   lihinco  Posnet 


Lirp 


him    out.       Silcnc*-.       Vou     cant    conn-    in     lu-n-. 
hnck. 

Strapper  ruthn  to  the  door  and  forcei  hia  tray  out. 

SHCHirr  [taraffelif]  Whnts  this  noise?  Cnnt  you 
kffp  cjuirt  thcTf?  Is  this  n  Slu-riff's  court  or  is  it  a 
saloon  ? 

Hlan<<).  I)t>nt  inti  rrupt  n  Intly  in  thr  net  of  hinging 
n   gt  iitli-umn.      \N  h«r«-.s  your  iimniu-rs  ? 

I'ecmy.  I'll  linii^  you.  Hlnnco  I'osnrt.  I  will.  I 
wouldnt  for  tifty  dollars  lindnt  srrn  yoy  this  morning. 
I'll  trnch  you  to  be  civil  to  mc  next  time,  for  nil  I'm  not 
good  enough  to  kiss  the  Book. 

lJi..\N(<).  I  ord  krep  me  wicked  till  I  die!  I'm  gnme 
for  Anything  while  ynure   spitting  dirt  nt  me,   r«-«-n>y. 

Henewko  TiMii-T  .\t  The  Doom.  Here,  whnts  this? 
Kire  them  out.  Not  me.  Who  nre  you  thit  I  should 
get  out  of  your  wny  ?  <>h,  ttow  it.  Well,  she  cnnt  come 
in.  Whnt  womnn?  V  .it  horse?  Whnts  the  good  of 
shoving  like  thnt?     \Mi     snys  ?      No  I  you  dont  »ny  I 

The  .*>MEHiFr.  (ienliemen  of  the  Vigilance  Commit- 
tee: clear  thnt  doorway.  Out  with  them  in  tin-  name  of 
tlie  law. 

Sthaim'ER  [rrithout]  Hold  hard,  George.  [At  the 
door]  Thvyvc  got  the  horse.  [lie  comes  in,  foUotred 
bif  IVapgoner  Jo,  an  elderly  carter,  trho  crottet  the  court 
to  the  jury  tide.  Strapper  pushes  his  tray  to  the  Sher- 
iff and  speaks  privately  to  him\. 

The  Boys.  What !  No!  Ciot  the  horse!  Sheriff's 
horse.'  Who  t<x)k  it,  then?  Where?  Ciet  out.  Yes  it 
is,  sure.  I  tell  you  it  is.  It's  tiie  horse  all  right  enough. 
Rot.     Go  and  look.     By  Gum  I 

The  Sheriff  [to  Strapper]     You  dont  say! 

Str.\ppeb.      It's  here,   I   tell  you. 

WA(i(ioXER  Jo.      It's  here  all  right  enough,  Sheriff. 

Strapper.      .\nd  theyvc  got  the  thief  too. 

Elder  Daniels.      Then  it  aint  Blanco. 


The  Shewin/^-L'p  of   Hlanco  Posnet  4.38 

SxHAri'Kii.  No:  it  h  .i  wonrm.  [liLanco  t/cllt  and 
covers   hts  t'jfet   rtiih   hu  hatuii]. 

The  U'miLE  Chowh.      A  wonifin  I 

The  Siiekifk.  Wtll.  fttch  li«-r  in.  [Strapprr  goet 
out.  The  Sheriff  conttnuct,  to  Fet'my\  Ami  whnt  do 
you  uienn.  yon  lyiiij;  jfulc,  by  puttili^  up  tlii.s  Mtory  on 
u«   ilmut  Ulnnco.' 

Feemy.  I  nint  put  up  no  story  on  y«»u.  This  is  a 
pl.int:  rou  »«•  if  it  isnL 

Strapper  returua  nith  a  rromon.  JJer  esprettion  of 
intense  prief  silences  them  as  they  crane  over  one  an- 
other's hetuis  to  see  her.  Strapper  takes  her  to  the  cor- 
ner of  tlie  tahle.  The  KUler  moves  up  to  make  room 
for  her. 

Blanco  [terrifieil]  :  tlwit  woinnn  nint  rr.-il.  You  take 
cnrr.  That  woman  will  innk<-  you  do  whnt  you  never 
iritfiidrd.  That.s  thi-  rainlHjw  wonmn.  ThuLs  the  woman 
tliat  broujfht  nic  to  this. 

The  Sheriff.  Shut  your  moutJi,  will  you.  Youve 
got  the  horrors.  [To  the  rroman]  Now  you.  ^lio  are 
you?  and  what  art"  you  doin^  with  a  horsi:  that  dot-snt 
Ix'loiii;  to  you  ? 

The  Woman.  I  ttmk  it  to  save  my  child's  life.  I 
tlioupht  it  would  get  me  to  a  dtK'tor  in  time.  It  was 
clioking  with  croup. 

Blanco  [strangling,  and  trying  to  laugh^  A  little 
choker:  thats  the  word  for  him.  His  choking  wasnt  real: 
wait  and  .sec  mine.      [He  feels  his  neck  trith  a  sob]. 

The  SirERiFK.      \\'lHrt's  Uie  child? 

Str.vppeu.  On  Png  Jackson's  l>ench  in  his  shed. 
He's  makin  a  coffin  for  it. 

Blanco  [rrith  a  horrible  convulsion  of  the  throat — 
frantically]  Dead!  The  little  Judag  kid!  The  child 
I  gave  mv  life  for!  [He  breaks  into  hideous  laugh- 
Ur]. 

The  Sheeiff  [jarred  beyond  endurance  by  the  sound] 


434  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

Hold  you  noise!  will  you?  Shove  his  neckerchief  into 
his  nioutl)  if  he  dont  stop.  [  To  tlir  rruman  \  Doiit  you 
mind  him.  mnam :  he's  mad  witJj  drink  and  devilment.  I 
8U|)j)osc  theres  no  fake  about  this,  StrapjK'r.  Who  found 
her.> 

Waoooner  Jo.  I  did.  Sheriff.  Th«-res  no  fake  al)out 
it.  I  came  on  h«'r  on  the  track  round  hy  Red  Mountain. 
She  was  .settin  on  tlie  ground  with  the  d«-ad  hody  on 
her  lap,  .stupid-likc  The  horse  was  grarin  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road.  % 

The  SiiERirr  [puzzled]  Well,  this  is  hlamed  queer. 
[To  thr  troman]  What  call  had  you  to  take  the  horse 
from  Kldcr  Daniels'  stal)le  to  lind  a  doctor.*  Theres  a 
doctor   in   the   vr-ry   next   house. 

B  LAN  to  [  mopping  his  liahhlrd  rnl  crrst  and  trifing  to 
he  ironuallif  gajf\  Story  simply  wont  wash,  my  angel. 
Vou  got  it  from  the  man  that  stole  tin-  horse.  He  gave 
it  t«)  you  lK"cau.se  he  was  a  softy  and  went  to  bits  when 
you  played  off  the  sick  kid  on  him.  Well,  I  guess  that 
dears  m«-.  I'm  n<»t  that  sort.  Catch  me  putting  my  neck 
in  a  n«Mise  for  anylxxly's  kid ! 

The  Foreman.  Dont  you  go  putting  her  up  to  what 
to  say.      She  said  she  took  it. 

The  Woman.  Yes:  I  took  it  from  a  man  that  met 
mc.  I  thought  God  sent  him  to  me.  I  rode  h<-re  joy- 
fully thinking  so  all  the  time  to  myself.  Then  I  noticed 
that  the  cliild  was  like  lead  in  my  arms.  God  would 
never  have  been  so  cruel  as  to  send  me  the  horse  to  dis- 
appoint me  like  that. 

Blanco.      Just  what  He  would  do. 

Strapper.  We  aint  got  nothin  to  do  with  tljaL  This 
is  the  man,  aint  he.*    [pointing  to  Blanco]. 

The  Woman  \pulling  herself  together  after  looking 
scaredly  at  Blanco,  and  then  at  the  Sheriff  and  at  the 
jurt/]      No. 

The  Foreman.      You  lie. 


The  Shewing- Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  4.35 

The  SiiERiKK.  V«)uvf  ^'ot  t<»  ttU  us  tin*  truth.  Thats 
the  law,  you  know. 

The  Wom.\.v.  The  man  lookt-d  a  bad  man.  He 
cursed  nic;  and  he  cursed  the  chihl:  God  forgive  him! 
But  soMJcthing  eame  over  him.  I  was  desperate.  I  put 
the  ehilil  in  liis  arms;  and  it  got  its  little  tingers  down 
his  n«ek  and  eallcd  him  Daddy  and  tried  to  kiss  him; 
for  it  was  not  right  in  its  head  with  the  fever.  He  .said 
it  w;is  a  little  Judas  kid,  and  that  it  was  betraying  him 
with  a  kiss,  and  that  he'd  swing  for  it.  And  then  he 
gave  me  the  horse,  and  went  away  crying  and  laugliing 
and  singing  dreadful  dirty  wieked  words  to  hynm  tunes 
like  as  if  he   had  se\en  devils  in  him. 

Sthaim'kh.      She's   lying.      Clive  her  the  oath,  CJeorge. 

The  Shehjff.  Go  easy  there.  Yourc  a  smart  boy. 
Strapper;  but  youre  not  Sheriff  yet.  This  is  my  job. 
You  just  wait.  I  submit  that  we're  in  a  difficulty  here. 
If  Hlaneo  was  the  man.  the  lady  cant,  as  a  white  woman, 
give  him  away.  She  oughtnt  to  be  put  in  the  jxisition 
of  having  either  to  give  him  away  or  connnit  perjury. 
On  the  other  hand,  we  dont  want  u  horse-thief  to  get  off 
through  a  lady's  delicacy. 

The  Fohe.m.\x.  No  we  dont;  and  we  dont  intend  he 
shall.      Not  while  I   am  foreman  of  this  jury. 

Blanco  \trith  intense  expression]  A  rotten  foreman! 
Oh,  wliat  a   rotten  foreman  I 

The  Sheriff.  Shut  up,  will  you.  Providence  shows 
us  a  way  out  here.  Two  women  saw  Blanco  with  a 
horse.  One  has  a  delicacy  about  saying  so.  The  other 
will  excuse  me  saying  that  delicacy  is  not  her  strongest 
holt.  She  can  give  the  necessary  witness.  Feemy  Evans: 
youve  taken  the  oath.  You  saw  the  man  that  took  the 
horse. 

Feemy.  I  did.  .\nd  he  was  a  low-down  rotten 
drunken  lying  hound  that  would  go  further  to  hurt  a 
woman  any  day  than  to  help  her.     And  if  he  ever  did  a 


436  The  Shewing- Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

good  action  it  was  because  he  was  too  drunk  to  know 
what  he  was  doing.  So  it's  no  harm  to  hang  him.  She 
said  he  cursed  her  and  went  away  blaspheming  and 
singing  things  tliat  were  not  fit  for  the  child  to 
hear. 

Blanco  [troubled]  I  didnt  mean  them  for  the  child 
to  hear,  you  venomous  devil. 

The  Sheriff.  All  thats  got  nothing  to  do  with  us. 
The  question  you  have  to  answer  is,  was  that  man 
Blanco  Posnet.'* 

The  Woman.  No.  I  say  no.  I  swear  it.  Sheriff: 
dont  hang  that  man :  oh  dont.  You  may  hang  me  instead 
if  you  like:  Ive  notliing  to  live  for  now.  You  darent  take 
her  word  against  mine.  She  never  had  a  child:  I  can 
see  it  in  her  face. 

Feemy  [stung  to  the  quick]  I  can  hang  him  in  spite 
of  you,  anyhow.  Much  good  your  child  is  to  you  now, 
lying  there  on   Pug  Jackson's  bench! 

Blanco  [rushing  at  her  with  a  shriek]  111  twist  your 
heart  out  of  you  for  that.  [They  seize  him  before  he  can 
reach   her], 

Feemy  [mocking  at  him  as  he  struggles  to  get  at  her] 
Ha,  ha,  Blanco  Posnet.  You  cant  touch  me;  and  I  can 
hang  you.  Ha,  ha!  Oh,  I'll  do  for  you.  I'll  twist  your 
heart  and  I'll  twist  your  neck,  [He  is  dragged  back  to 
the  bar  and  leans  on  it,  gasping  and  exhausted.]  Give 
me  the  oath  again.  Elder.  I'll  settle  him.  And  do  you 
[to  the  woman]  take  your  sickly  face  away  from  in  front 
of  me. 

Strapper,  Just  turn  your  back  on  her  there,  will 
you.? 

The  Woman.  God  knows  I  dont  want  to  see  her 
commit  murder.     [She  folds  her  shawl  over  her  head]. 

The  Sheriff.  Now,  Miss  Evans :  cut  it  short.  Was 
the  prisoner  the  man  you  saw  this  morning  or  was  he 
not?     Yes  or  no.? 


The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  437 

Feemy  [a  little  hysterically]  I'll  tell  you  fast  enough. 
Dent  think  I'm  a  softy. 

The  Sheriff  [losing  patience]  Here:  weve  had 
enough  of  tliis.  You  tell  the  truth,  Feemy  Evans;  and 
let  us  have  no  more  of  your  lip.  Was  the  prisoner  the 
man  or  was  he  not }     On  your  oath  ? 

Feemy,  On  my  oath  and  as  I'm  a  living  woman — 
[flinching]  Oh  God !  he  felt  the  little  child's  hands  on 
his  neck — I  cant  [bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears  and 
scolding  at  the  other  n'oma7i]  It's  you  with  your  sniv- 
elling face  that  has  put  me  off  it,  [Desperately]  No: 
it  wasnt  him,  I  only  said  it  out  of  spite  because  he 
insulted  me.  May  I  be  struck  dead  if  I  ever  saw  him 
with  the  horse ! 

Everybody  draws  a  long  breath.     Dead  silence. 

Blanco  [rvhispering  at  her]  Softy!  Cry-baby! 
Landed  like  me !  Doing  what  you  never  intended  I 
[Taking  up  his  hat  and  speaking  in  his  ordinary  tone] 
I  presume  I  may  go  now,  Sheriff, 

Strapper,      Here,  hold  hard. 

The  Foreman,     Not  if  we  know  it,  you  dont. 

The  Boys  [barring  the  way  to  the  door]  You  stay 
where  you  are.  Stop  a  bit,  stop  a  bit.  Dont  you  be  in 
such  a  hurry,     Dont  let  him  go.     Not  much, 

Blanco  stands  motionless ,  his  eye  fixed,  thinking  hard, 
and  apparently  deaf  to  what  is  going  on. 

The  Sheriff  [rising  solemnly]  Silence  there.  Wait 
a  bit,  I  take  it  that  if  the  Sheriff  is  satisfied  and  the 
owner  of  the  horse  is  satisfied,  theres  no  more  to  be  said. 
I  have  had  to  remark  on  former  occasions  that  what  is 
wrong  with  this  court  is  that  theres  too  many  Sheriffs 
in  it.  To-day  there  is  going  to  be  one,  and  only  one; 
and  that  one  is  your  humble  servant.  I  call  that  to  the 
notice  of  the  Foreman  of  the  jury,  and  also  to  the  no- 
tice of  young  Strapp)er,  I  am  also  the  owner  of  the 
horse.     Does  any  man  say  that  I  am  not?      [Silence]. 


438  The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet 

Wry  \vi  11,  tlitii.  In  my  opinion,  to  commandeer  a  horse 
for  tile  j)urpose  of  getting  a  dying  ehild  to  a  doetor  is 
not  stealing,  provided,  as  in  the  present  case,  that  the 
horse  is  returned  safe  and  sound.  I  rule  that  there  has 
been  no  theft. 

Nestok.      That  aint  the  l.iw. 

The  Sheriff.  I  tine  you  a  dollar  for  contempt  of 
court,  and  will  collect  it  myself  off  you  as  you  leave  the 
building.  And  as  the  boys  have  been  dia^ippoiiited  of 
their  natural  sport,  I  shall  give  them  a  little  fun  by 
standing  outside  the  door  and  taking  uj)  a  collection  for 
the  bereaved  mother  of  the  late  kid  that  shewed  up 
Blanco   Posnet. 

The  Boys.  A  collection.  Oh.  I  say  I  Calls  that 
sport .^  Is  this  a  mothers'  meeting?  Well,  I'll  be  jig- 
gered I     \\'here  does  the  sport  come  in.'' 

The  Smehiff  [coulinuing]  The  sport  comes  in,  my 
friends,  not  so  much  in  contributing  as  in  seeing  others 
fork  out.  Thus  each  contributes  to  the  general  enjoy- 
ment; and  all  contribute  to  his.  Blanco  Posnet:  you  go 
free  imder  the  jimtection  of  the  \'igilance  Committee  for 
just  long  enough  to  get  you  out  of  this  town,  which  is 
not  a  healthy  place  for  you.  As  you  are  in  a  hurry.  I'll 
sell  you  the  horse  at  a  reasonable  figure.  Now.  boys, 
let  nobody  go  out  till  I  get  to  the  door.  The  court  is 
adjourned.      [lie  goes  out]. 

Strapper  [to  Feemy,  as  he  goes  to  the  door]  I'm 
done  with  you.  Do  you  hear.'  I'm  done  with  you.  [He 
goes   out   sulkili^]. 

Fee.mv  [calling  after  him]  As  if  I  cared  about  a 
stingy  brat  like  you !  Go  back  to  the  freckled  may- 
pole you  left  for  me:  youve  been  fretting  for  her  long 
enough. 

The  Foreman'  [To  Blanco,  on  his  rvay  out]  A  man 
like  you  makes  me  sick.  Just  sick.  [Blanco  makes  no 
sign.     The  Foreman  spits  disgustedly,  and  follons  Strap- 


The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  439 

per  out.  The  Jurymen  leave  the  box,  except  Nestor,  who 
collapses  in  a  drunken  sleep^. 

Blanco  [Suddenly  rushing  from  the  bar  to  the  table 
and  jumping  up  on  it]  Boys,  I'm  going  to  preach  you 
a  sermon  on  the  moral  of  this  day's  proceedings. 

The  Boys  [cron-ding  round  him]  Yes:  lets  have  a 
sermon.  Go  ahead,  Blanco.  Silence  for  Elder  Blanco. 
Tune  the  organ.     Let  us  pray. 

Nestor  [staggering  out  of  his  sleep]  Never  hold  up 
your  head  in  this  town  again.      I'm  done  with  you. 

Blanco  [pointing  inexorably  to  Nestor]  Drunk  in 
church.      Disturbing  the   preacher.      Hand  him  out. 

The  Boys  [chivying  Nestor  out]  Now,  Nestor,  out- 
side. Outside,  Nestor.  Out  you  go.  Get  your  subscrip- 
tion ready  for  the  Sheriff.     Skiddoo,  Nestor. 

Nestor.  Afraid  to  be  hanged!  Afraid  to  be  hanged! 
[.//  the  door]      Coward!      [lie  is  thrown  out]. 

Blanco.     Dearly  beloved  brethren — 

A    Bov.      Same  to   you,    Blanco.       [Laughter]. 

Blanco.  And  many  of  them.  Boys:  tliis  is  a  rotten 
world. 

Another  Boy.  Lord  have  mercy  on  us,  miserable 
sinners.      [More  laughter]. 

Blanco  [Forcibly]  No:  thats  where  youre  wrong. 
Dont  flatter  yourselves  that  youre  miserable  sinners. 
Am  I  a  miserable  sinner.^  No:  I'm  a  fraud  and 
a  failure.  I  started  in  to  be  a  bad  man  like  the 
rest  of  you.  You  all  started  in  to  be  bad  men 
or  you  wouldnt  be  in  this  jumped-up,  jerked-off, 
hospital-turned-out  camp  that  calls  itself  a  town.  I  took 
the  broad  path  because  I  thought  I  was  a  man  and  not 
a  snivelling  canting  turning-the-other-cheek  apprentice 
angel  serving  his  time  in  a  vale  of  tears.  They  talked 
Christianity  to  us  on  Sundays ;  but  when  tliey  really 
meant  business  they  told  us  never  to  take  a  blow  without 
giving  it  back,  and  to  get  dollars.     When  they  talked  the 


440  The  Shewing- Up  uf  Blanco  Posnet 

golden  rule  to  me,  I  just  looked  at  the.ui  as  if  they 
werent  there,  and  spat.  But  when  tlicy  told  lue  to  try 
to  live  my  life  so  thnt  I  could  always  look  my  fellowmnn 
straight  in  th<;  eye  and  tell  him  to  go  to  hell,  that 
fetciuy;!  mc. 

The  Bovs.  (^iiite  right,  G(X)d.  Jhilly  for  you, 
Blanco,  old  son.     Right  go<xi  sense  too.     Aha-a-ah ! 

Blanco.  Yes;  but  whats  come  of  it  all?  Am  I  a 
real  bad  man.^  a  man  of  game  and  grit?  a*  man  tliat  does 
■what  he  likes  and  goes  over  or  through  other  people 
to  his  owni  gain?  or  am  I  a  snivelling  cry-baby  that  let 
a  horse  his  life  dej)ended  on  be  took  from  him  by  a 
woman,  and  then  sat  on  the  grass  looking  at  the  rain- 
bow and  let  himself  be  took  like  a  hare  in  a  trap  by 
Strapper  Kemp:  a  lad  whose  back  I  or  any  grown  man 
here  could  break  against  his  knee?  I'm  a  rottener  fraud 
and  failure  than  the  F.ldrr  here.  And  youre  all  as  rot- 
ten as  me,  or  youd  have  lynched  me. 

.\   Boy.      .\n\'thing  to  oblige  you.  Blanco. 

Another.  We  can  do  it  yet  if  you  feel  really  bad 
about  it 

Blanco.  No:  the  devil's  gone  out  of  you.  We're  all 
frauds.  Thcres  none  of  us  real  good  and  none  of  us 
real  bad. 

Elder  Daniels.     There  is  One  above,  Blanco. 

Blanco,  \^'hat  do  you  know  about  Him?  you  that 
always  talk  as  if  He  never  did  an\-thing  without  asking 
your  rotten  leave  first?  Why  did  the  child  die?  Tell 
me  that  if  you  can.  He  cant  have  wanted  to  kill  the 
child,  ^^'hy  did  He  make  me  go  soft  on  the  child  if 
He  was  going  hard  on  it  Himself?  Why  should  He  go 
hard  on  tlie  innocent  kid  and  go  soft  on  a  rotten  thing 
like  me?  Why  did  I  go  soft  myself?  Why  did  the  Sher- 
iff go  soft?  Why  did  Feemy  go  soft?  Whats  this  game 
that  upsets  our  game?  For  seems  to  me  theres  two 
g^mes  bein   played.     Our   game  is   a   rotten   game  that 


The  She\nng-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet   441 

makes  me  feel  I'm  dirt  and  tlmt  youre  all  as  rotten  dirt 
as  me.  T'other  game  may  be  a  silly  game;  but  it 
aint  rotten.  WTien  the  Shej-iflf  played  it  he  stopped 
being  rotten.  When  Feemy  played  it  the  paint  nearly 
dropped  off  her  face.  When  I  played  it  I  cureeil 
myself  for  a  fool;  but  I  lost  the  rotten  feel  all  the 
same. 

Elder  Danikls.  It  was  the  Lord  spenking  to  your 
soul,   Blanco. 

Blanco.  Oh  yes:  you  know  all  about  the  Lord,  dont 
you?  Voure  in  the  Lord's  conHdcncc.  He  wouldnt  for 
the  world  do  anything  to  shock  you,  would  He,  Boozy 
dear.'  Yah  I  ^^'hat  about  the  croup.'  It  was  early  days 
when  He  made  the  croup,  I  guess.  It  was  the  best  He 
could  think  of  then;  but  when  it  turned  out  wrong  on 
His  hands  He  made  you  and  me  to  fight  the  croup  for 
him.  You  bet  He  didnt  make  us  for  nothing;  and  He 
wouldnt  have  made  us  at  all  if  He  could  have  done  His 
work  without  us.  By  Gum,  that  must  bo  what  we're  for! 
He'd  never  have  made  us  to  be  rotten  drunken  black- 
guards like  me,  and  good-for-nothing  rips  like  Feemy. 
He  made  me  because  He  had  a  job  for  me.  He  let  me 
run  loose  til  the  job  was  ready;  and  then  I  had  to  come 
along  and  do  it,  hanging  or  no  hanging.  And  I  tell  you 
it  didnt  feel  rotten:  it  felt  bully,  just  bully.  Anyhow, 
I  got  the  rotten  feel  off  me  for  a  minute  of  my  life;  and 
I'll  go  through  fire  to  get  it  off  me  again.  Look  here! 
which  of  you  will  marry  Feemy  Evans  } 

The  Boys  [uproariously]  \Mio  speaks  first.'  Who'll 
marry  Feemy.'  Come  along,  Jack.  Mows  your  chance, 
Peter.  Pass  along  a  husband  for  Feemy.  Oh  my! 
Feemy ! 

Feemy  [shortly]     Keep  your  tongue  off  me.  will  you.' 

Blanco.  Feemy  was  a  rose  of  the  broad  path,  wasnt 
she  ?  You  all  ihought  her  the  champion  bad  woman  of 
this  district.     Well,  she's  a  failure  as  a  bad  woman ;  and 


442  The  Shewing-UiD  of  Blanco  Posnet 

I'm  a  failure  as  a  bad  man.  So  let  Brother  Daniels 
marry  us  to  keep  all  the  rottenness  in  the  family.  What 
do  you  say,  Feemy? 

Fee.mv.  Thank  you;  but  when  I  marry  I'll  marry  a 
man  that  could  do  a  decent  action  without  surprising 
himself  out  of  his  senses.  Youre  like  a  child  with  a 
new  toy:  you  and  your  bit  of  human  kindness! 

The  Wom.an.  How  many  would  have  done  it  with 
their  life  at  stake.'' 

Feemv.  Oh  well,  if  youre  so  much  taken  with  him, 
marry  him  yourself.  Youd  be  what  people  call  a  good 
wife  to  him,  wouldnt  yon.^ 

The  Woman.  I  was  a  good  wife  to  the  child's  father. 
I  dont  think  any  woman  wants  to  be  a  good  wife  twice 
in  her  life.  I  want  somebody  to  be  a  good  husband  to 
me  now. 

Bl.xxco.  Any  offer,  gentlemen,  on  that  understand- 
ing? [The  hoifs  shake  their  heads].  Oh,  its  a  rotten 
game,  our  game.  Here's  a  real  good  woman;  and  she's 
had  enough  of  it,  finding  that  it  only  led  to  being  put 
upon. 

Haxx.vh.  Well,  if  there  was  nothing  wrong  in  the 
world  there  wouldnt  be  anything  left  for  us  to  do,  would 
there  ? 

Elder  Daniels.  Be  of  good  cheer,  brothers.  Fight 
on.     Seek  the  path. 

Blanco.  No.  No  more  paths.  No  more  broad  and 
narrow.  Xo  more  good  and  bad.  Theres  no  good  and 
bad;  but  by  Jiminy,  gents,  theres  a  rotten  game,  and 
theres  a  great  game.  I  played  the  rotten  game ;  but  the 
great  game  was  played  on  me;  and  now  I'm  for  the  great 
game  every  time.  Amen.  Gentlemen:  let  us  adjourn  to 
the  saloon.  I  st-and  the  drinks.  [He  jumps  down  from 
the  table]. 

The  Boys.  Right  you  are.  Blanco.  Drinks  round. 
Come  along,  boys.     Blanco's  standing.     Right  along  to 


The  Shewing-Up  of  Blanco  Posnet  443 

the  Elder's.  Hurrah!  [Thei/  rush  out,  dragging  the 
Elder  tvith   them]. 

Blanco  [to  Feemy,  offering  his  hand\  Shake,  Feemy. 

Feemy.      Get  along,  you  blackguard. 

Blanco.  It's  come  over  me  again,  same  as  when  the 
kid  touched  me.     Shake,  Feemy. 

Feemy.     Oh  well,  here.     \_They  shake  hands]. 


I 


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1 . 50  net 


AA    000  379  578 


